


Smooth River Stones

by Dracoduceus



Series: Smooth River Stones [1]
Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Brainwashing, Canon-Typical Violence, Cyberninja in Denial, Cyberninja's Trust Issues, Dealing with depression in unhealthy ways, Denial, Discussion of Medical Torture, Discussion of Torture, Existential Crisis, Flashbacks, It Pronouns, M/M, Memory Loss, Mention of Animal Death, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Suicidal Ideation, Talon Jesse McCree, background/minor character death, cyberninja hanzo, discussion of death and violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-01
Updated: 2020-09-02
Packaged: 2020-11-07 20:34:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 73,008
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20823401
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dracoduceus/pseuds/Dracoduceus
Summary: It was programmed not to feel, to continue on without stopping until its handler called it back. Like a loyal hound it obeys all commands of its handler. It feels no pain, no emotion. It remembers, but only the memories that the technicians allow.But lately its begun to notice changes. Images. Dreams. Sometimes it closes its eyes and sees a different world, surrounded by people that smile at it.Until the technicians can repair the lines of code, Cyberninja is saving these strange anomalies, holding them close. It is a dangerous thing for a machine to do, to collect these things, like one would collect a smooth stone, or perhaps one that was visually appealing.There is no time to get these anomalies repaired and soon Cyberninja and its handler are sent off on another mission. Only this time, something goes wrong. It and its handler are captured by Overwatch and taken back to their base which feels strangely familiar...





	1. Smooth River Stones: 1

**Author's Note:**

> This time I cannot entirely blame [IchigoWhiskey](https://twitter.com/ichigowhiskey) and I have the chat logs to prove it. It's at least 60% her fault though, because I proposed the idea and she made it worse.
> 
> Worse in that the tears that sustain me will hopefully be flowing. I hope. I challenge myself because I want to one-up [Always Close to You](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18752077/chapters/44483698). 
> 
> That being said, right now it's light on tags. As the story progresses, I will continue to tag as the story progresses.

“Oh, God, _ fuck _ I love you,” McCree groaned, voice muffled by the bed.

Such declarations of love weren’t new, haven’t been for a while, but Hanzo still treasured them. Once upon a time he collected them, like one would collect smooth pebbles or shells or sea glass, so that he might look back at them and smile. They were delivered in the heat of the moment and back then, Hanzo had not been used to the idea that someone _ cared _ about him—they were spoken in the heat of the moment and as such they meant nothing in the grand scheme of things.

But they meant something to Hanzo.

Then McCree began saying it outside of their nights together. _ I love you, I love you, I love you _. These, Hanzo didn’t know what to do with but hoarded each moment anyway. He told himself that there were a hundred ways to use the word “love” in the English language.

_ I love it! _ Hana had cried when Brigitte won her a prize at the fair.

_ I love this! _ Mei had yelled, unable to hear her own voice through the headphones that Lúcio had given her.

_ I love you, _ Ana would tell Fareeha, much to her feigned disgust, while telling embarrassing stories from her daughter’s childhood.

_ I love you _, McCree had begun to tell Hanzo, his eyes soft and earnest and his touch soft as he pulled Hanzo close. At the time, Hanzo hadn’t known what to do, how to deal with it. It was as if a polished ruby had made it into his collection of river stones.

Now he was an old hand at it, and his collection had gained as many rubies as river stones.

Now he even said it back.

_ Aishiteiru _.

_ I love you _.

_ Mi amor _.

They said it to each other all the time; it didn’t matter who else was there, much to their team’s teasing or sounds of mock disgust.

Hanzo was brought back to the present when McCree moaned beneath him, long and drawn out. “Fuck, baby,” he breathed as Hanzo shifted. “Marry me.”

_ That _ wasn’t something they’d ever discussed though. Brushing it off but keeping the memory close just as he did with all of those _ I love you _’s, Hanzo continued his slow rocking, each shift of his weight pushing McCree deeper into the comforters.

But it was a _ thought _ and it ate away at him bit by bit, like paper cut on the joint: nothing major but ever-present, ever lurking in the peripheries of his thoughts. Instead he moved to ignore it, let it wash over him as he worked and listened to McCree’s groans and pleased babbling.

_ Marry me. _

_ Marry me _.

He tried not to let it show when he climbed off of McCree’s hips, knowing that his partner was more perceptive to his moods than most others on the team.

McCree groaned from deep in his diaphragm, rolling his shoulders as he sat up. “My God, I don’t think I’ve ever felt so relaxed. You’re magic with your hands, Han. Think you got every knot I’d ever had and even ones I didn’t know I had.” He turned and knelt on the bed in front of Hanzo, lifting a hand to cup his cheek. “And I meant every word,” he breathed, leaning in for a soft kiss. “I love you. And I want you to marry me.”

Immediately Hanzo stiffened. “You jest.”

“You know I wouldn’t play you like that,” McCree murmured. He leaned back, the warmth fading from his expression. The walls were coming back up. He was trying to protect himself again.

Hanzo grabbed his hands, then his cheeks, stared into McCree’s eyes. “You meant what?” he asked, sounding terrifying even to his own ears. “Say it again.”

“I want you to marry me.”

* * *

Cyberninja sat up. Its handler was sitting next to it, whistling as he whittled away at a chunk of wood; between his splayed legs was a small pile of sawdust.

“Sleep well?” its handler asked without looking up.

“It slept sufficiently,” Cyberninja reported. “It dreamt.”

“About what?”

For a fraction of a second, it hesitated. There was something about that dream that had felt familiar but then it brushed away that dangerous thought—the dream was probably an “echo” of one of the covers it had to affect.

The dream was of no consequence and its handler had asked it a question.

“It was in bed,” Cyberninja explained. “A man asked it to marry him.”

Its handler watched it with an unreadable look on his face. He’d seen a similar look on his face before—it was calculating, ruthless, _ angry _.

Then its handler returned to whittling with shaking hands. His voice was almost as blank as Cyberninja’s when he asked, “What did you say?”

“It woke up,” Cyberninja said. “It didn’t answer.”

Its handler grunted. The knife slipped and he twisted his hand to avoid cutting himself. “I woke you up. I’m sorry.”

If it could feel more than the barest hint of emotion, it would be…unnerved—_ uncomfortable _—with the way that its handler apologized to it. It was as if he didn’t realize that it was just a tool to be used. To be woken up and put to sleep on command, to be ordered to continue moving forward until entirely obliterated.

That was how it had lost some of its limbs, after all—the first leg was in a test to ensure that the new prototype installed in its computer worked correctly.

Its other leg and one of its arms had been because previous handlers had not performed the proper maintenance on its body. That was how it had been given to its new handler. The one who apologized as if it could feel pain—as if its body was its own.

It said nothing; that was the safest response. Certainly, its handler was testing it, to make sure that it did not evolve into a true omnic or AI that mimicked human. It was only a droid, little more than a drone that followed voice commands.

“We got a new job,” its handler said with a grunt. “I don’t like it, but we got no choice in the matter. We’re up against Overwatch again.” It sat up and its handler handed it a datapad. “Do you remember Overwatch?”

“Illegal,” it said immediately. “Vigilantes. Consisting of—”

Its handler grunted and it stopped talking. “Review the brief,” he said. “I have a few guesses of who might be showing up so prepare accordingly—and prepare for me to be wrong.”

“Yes, handler.”

He went back to whittling. “Authorized for non-lethal force. The priority are components and acquiring information on a prominent electronics manufacturer.”

“Yes, handler.”

Its handler grunted. “Eat,” he said gruffly. “A large meal now, a smaller meal closer to the mission. I will provide your meals—read the bulletin while I go and get them.”

“Yes, handler.” It did not remind its handler that it did not eat, that rather it consumed a slurry of fuel that was designed for it. Its handler already knew this.

With a groan—its handler had a knee that ached sometimes, if he sat for too long—its handler stood and walked to the door.

It wondered if it had done something wrong and as if hearing that thought, its handler stopped. “You ain’t done nothing wrong,” he said gruffly. Then he kept walking. “Ain’t nothing wrong at all.”

Then it was left alone again. It reached for the briefing.

* * *

It was damaged.

Its handler was upset but it couldn’t understand why. He stood—as was proper protocol—in the room with the technicians and medical personnel as they repaired him. His expression was thunderous and Cyberninja almost expected to see the crackle of lightning running over his crossed arms.

For a moment it was alarmed. Thoughts like that were outside of its programming. It knew that it should be reported immediately to the technicians—and to its handler—but…well, there were more issues for the technicians to address.

There were greater problems for its handler to solve than an extra line of coding in Cyberninja’s program. It was a bug that could be addressed at a later date, once the more pressing damage had been taken care of.

Overwatch had _ targeted _ it. Had targeted Cyberninja and its handler.

It would be worried, if it was allowed to. They had tried to capture Cyberninja; they had tried to kill its handler. It wanted—a dangerous thing, even for a machine—to know why.

The technicians finished first and the medical personnel finished up. Then they left Cyberninja with its handler.

“How you feeling?” its handler asked as he always did after its repairs.

“Functional,” it replied.

Its handler grunted. “They really were going for you, huh?” that didn’t warrant a response so it said nothing. “Did they speak to you?”

“They did.”

“What did they say?”

Somehow this very standard debrief felt…different. As if there was a different weight to the words that gave them different meaning.

It wasn’t meant to think such things, though. So, it reported simply what was said to it.

_ Brother, come back _. It noted that it was an onmic that said this; Cyberninja speculated that perhaps it was mistaken, believing that it was one of its “brother” models.

Its handler grunted.

_ I can’t do this _ , the agent Lena Oxton had said. She was the easiest to distinguish: light armor, disappearing in streaks of blue. She hadn’t expected Cyberninja to be able to do something similar. _ Don’t make me do this _.

The Dr. Mei-Ling Zhou had said something in Chinese that Cyberninja was unable to translate. It reported this to its handler who gave a short nod.

“Describe the mission. Debrief.”

Cyberninja obeyed. It described reading the mission briefings and then descending to the battlefield with its handler. At no time had it been out of sight of its handler so he knew these things, or at least the vague aspects of it. However, this was protocol and it obeyed, no matter how redundant it seemed.

When it was done, its handler grunted again. “How are you feelin’?” he asked.

“Functional,” Cyberninja replied immediately.

Its handler peered at it. “How do you _ feel? _”

For a moment, Cyberninja paused. Was this a test? “It does not feel,” it said at last, diffidently in case it was another test, in case its handler thought it was being disrespectful. “It is a machine. It is functional.”

Its handler grunted. “Can you stand?” he asked.

“It can stand.” Was this another test?

Rubbing a hand over his face, its handler gestured and it climbed down from the observation table. “Are you in pain?”

“Its knee is not at optimum capacity,” Cyberninja said reluctantly.

Its handler knelt, both of his hands moving to its knee which it cupped gently. For a brief moment, however long it took for it to blink, a different image replaced what it saw.

A man—the auburn-haired man from its dream—stared up at it. His face looked softer, his eyes less stormy and troubled, but it realized that the man in this image was its handler. He was smiling and he moved his head, buried his face in its legs which in this image were whole.

Its body hurt less.

Then it blinked again and the image faded. Its handler was kneeling, still in blood- and sweat-soaked clothing, the ominous black cape folded around his shoulders like folded wings.

“Some chafing,” its handler said and stood with a grunt. “We’ll get you some food and get you to rest.”

“It does not eat food,” it reminded its handler carefully.

Its handler looked back at it and grunted. “Come,” he ordered and Cyberninja obediently followed. It followed its handler to the mess for a tray of food—Cyberninja was given this to carry—and then to the labs where its fuel was stored. Back in its storage chamber, its handler traded the tray of food for its fuel. “Consume that,” he said gruffly as he sat down. “Do you have questions?”

Surely this was a trap. Would it be led to reprocessing? It didn’t like the feeling of needles and foreign thoughts in its brain—it always left the room disoriented, feeling as if it would float away like an untethered balloon.

But it certainly _ did _ need reprogramming. There was a line of code out of place—perhaps more.

It shouldn’t be dreaming.

It shouldn’t be seeing a different world when it blinked.

“It does not question,” it said carefully. This was a test, it had to be, to see to what extent it had been damaged. “It only obeys.”

Its handler grunted and took a bite of the food on his plate. He gestured to the fuel canister in Cyberninja’s hand and it pulled down its mask to consume it as ordered. “Do you know why Overwatch was targeting you?”

“Overwatch was targeting you as well,” Cyberninja said carefully.

“Do you have a guess?”

It hesitated and consumed its fuel to hide it. Something told it that its handler knew. His eyes were dark, his brows furrowed and wrinkled; there was a hint of silver in his dark hair.

“What is your hypothesis?” its handler asked. “It is a question of strategy.”

Oh.

That was more in line with its programming.

“Hypothesis: Overwatch is seeking to remove important players from the field.”

Its handler nodded. “Why? And how so?”

This was easier. It was strategy, an analysis of the battlefield, of the mission. Once its handler had introduced this measure after debriefing, its efficiency rating in the field had increased by 18%. With regular strategic analysis, its efficiency had increased further to 25% since its last handler.

“It is a droid,” Cyberninja said carefully. “It does not feel pain and it is not burdened by conscience, only logic. It is an asset in the field—and you are its handler.”

Its handler nodded in an absentminded kind of way. He did not seem to agree with its statement. “Is that the only reason?”

For another moment, it hesitated—and this time its handler said something about it. “Why do you hesitate?”

“It…noticed that Overwatch was targeting its handler.”

He grunted. “They were.” He took another large bite of food and gestured for Cyberninja to continue.

“Overwatch tried to kill its handler,” it said carefully. “They almost did.”

“Are you concerned?” This time it could not hide its hesitation. The severe expression on its handler’s face eased slightly. “Speak.” Somehow it sounded less like an order and more like a request.

But nobody _ asked _ anything of Cyberninja—they _ told _ it.

There was no good way to say it though. No matter what happened, it would be in trouble for being so bold as to _ want _.

“It…enjoys this handler,” Cyberninja said very carefully. “_ Enjoy _ is not the correct word.”

An odd expression crossed its handler’s face, as if he was in pain. “You feel concern over my wellbeing.”

He hadn’t asked a question but Cyberninja said, “yes, handler,” anyway.

“Why?”

Why, indeed? Cyberninja didn’t know and even if it did, it was hard to describe. “You ask it questions,” it said slowly. “It is a tool but you do not act like it is.”

“I give you a taste of humanity? Is that it?” a grimace split its handler’s face.

That seemed right. “Yes, handler.”

Its handler put his tray to the side and stood. He did not order Cyberninja to its feet so it remained sitting still, allowing him to step close enough to touch. There was something there, an electric current that seemed to make the very air vibrate.

“You like that I touch you,” he said. “And I treat you as more than just a tool to be ordered. But even dogs deserve a kind touch.”

Cyberninja watched its handler’s face, watched his expression disappear when it said, “but it is not a dog—it is a drone.”

Its handler sighed. “My name is Jesse McCree,” he said and Cyberninja was confused. Yes, it knew its handler’s name, but it was not human—it had no right to call a human by their human name.

One of its previous handlers had taught it that.

“You may call me that, when we are not on a mission,” its handler said. “Where nobody can hear us—you may call me by my name.”

Was this another test? “Yes, handler.”

“Are you doing that to be difficult?” its handler asked with a sigh that sounded halfway to a hysterical laugh.

Cyberninja’s brow creased. “No, handler,” it said diffidently. Its helm was beginning to ache, as if thumbs were pressing against the edge of its optic sensors.

Its handler put his hands on Cyberninja’s face. Other handlers had touched it before—in combat, in training, in down-time like this. It had not _ liked _ their touch, something about it making it uncomfortable. But droids did not “want” or “like” so it had said and did nothing.

Now…it felt different. It wasn’t an impersonal touch, or a touch with the intent to injure or test its reflexes. This was softer.

Cyberninja wasn’t sure how to react to it so it didn’t.

“Poor thing,” its handler sighed. “You must be in so much pain right now.”

“It is functional,” it insisted. If it wasn’t, it would be sent back to the labs, where they would discover these new lines of code. They would get rid of them for fear of it becoming an omnic, becoming something with a soul.

Its handler sighed. “How are your legs?”

“They are functional.”

Sighing, its handler knelt in front of it and rolled up the wide legs of its pants. “We need to clean you up,” he said. “And I think you’re chafing around the prostheses—yes.”

It looked down at its own legs, not seeing what its handler was talking about. “It is functional.”

“You are _ functional _ , yes,” its handler said testily, clearly mocking it. “But you are not _ well _.” He stopped and looked up into Cyberninja’s face. “Do you want me to stop?”

Surprised, it said nothing at first. “A drone is not supposed to _ want _,” it said belatedly.

Its handler leaned in close, but it didn’t feel pressuring, didn’t feel aggressive. “But you do,” its handler said very quietly. “Do you _ want _ me to stop?”

“Only authorized personnel—”

“I am your handler,” its handler interrupted almost gently. “I am authorized to do this. It is not as if I am unused to it.” He held up his prosthetic arm, twisted it so that Cyberninja could see the leering skull on the back of it. “I did not ask about _ authorization _, though—I asked if you want me to stop.”

It hesitated. “It needs to go back for reprogramming,” it said at last, reluctantly. “It is operating outside of its defined parameters.”

“I will make an appointment tomorrow. Notify me of any changes.”

“Yes, handler.”

Its handler peered up at it. “Now. May I help you with your legs?”

“Yes, handler.”

He scowled, clearly understanding that it had merely agreed out of convenience, but his hands were still gentle as they rolled up the cuffs of its pants until they rested above its thighs. With a hiss, its handler removed its right leg at the knee and gently poked and prodded at the tissue around the plate.

It watched intently as its handler did this to both legs, pressing and prodding at the redundant tissue. It felt…nice. There was a tension there that it hadn’t been aware of and the poking and prodding by its handler eased it. When he finally attached Cyberninja’s legs again, it reported that it felt much better.

“Good,” its handler said gruffly, getting to his feet with a groan. His knee must be bothering him again. “Finish your meal, then we’ll go and clean off.”

Feeling as if it had missed something important, Cyberninja nodded. “Yes, handler.”

It obeyed, because that was safer than asking questions.

* * *

It was dark and a hand threaded its way around his waist.

The hand was trembling and the breath that puffed against the back of his neck was uneven, felt strangely clammy.

It was another stone to add to his collection. Not a pretty stone for sure, but one that he savored nonetheless for the trust shown in this quiet moment between them in the middle of the night.

Keeping his breathing even, he reached down and put his hand over the one around his waist, tugged it—and the person attached to it—closer. The man behind him smelled like fresh smoke with a hint of vanilla, wore a thin set of shirt and pants that was still cool from stepping out on the observation deck for a smoke.

“Nightmare?” he asked sleepily.

The man behind him huffed, tangled their fingers together so that their rings clicked together. “Yeah,” he said shakily. He turned around to face the man behind him.

In this dream or memory, the dark corners of their room seemed to fade into nothingness, faded into an eternity of a dark sky devoid of stars. There was just two of them on their bed that should not fit them both but somehow did.

Just the two of them, two men whose names that he could not remember. In the strange way that dreams were, he recognized a face that he somehow couldn’t see, couldn’t make out—it was only a blurred area, like someone had censored it.

But he recognized the feel of those lips as they pressed against his nose. “Nightmare,” the man in his dream said and tugged him closer. “But its getting better now.”

“You smell like smoke,” he mumbled, burying his face in the man’s neck. He smelled like smoke and the salt air. “Wish you had taken me with you.”

The man chuckled, sounding more awake than he was. “Needed someone to keep the bed warm for me.”

He laughed drowsily, lips brushing against the other man’s darker skin. Shifting, he tangled their legs together, bare skin against thin cotton pants and shirt. This close, he could feel each breath, each thump-thump of his heartbeat, could hear the slight wheeze in throat and lungs and sinuses from broken noses that had healed wrong, from years of smoking and shouting.

“I’m not your bedwarmer,” he teased, wiggling his hips. “But if that’s what you want…” he trailed off suggestively and his partner laughed, his voice lower.

They rolled, his partner tugging him upright to sit astride his hips with his hands braced on his partner’s chest. His hair, dark as ink in the dim blue glow of the emergency lights fanned around him like a halo.

Both of them laughed when they nearly toppled over the side of the too-narrow bed and the lingering fog of his partner’s nightmare seemed to fade. Leaning down, he kissed him, lips slotting together as if magnetized. They had done this so many times before that they didn’t need to see each other to know where they were.

He had never felt so connected to another person, had once scoffed at the tropes from romance novels that talked about things like _ soulmates _ and _ true love’s kiss _. And maybe he didn’t feel it now but by all that was wonderful and terrible in this great world, he thought that he felt something fucking close to it.

* * *

It powered on.

A name was on the tip of its tongue, tied to a simple phrase of three letters. It was there, as easy as breathing—as if it reached for a tool that had moved since it had looked at it last.

The phrase was there and it irritated Cyberninja like an itch that it couldn’t scratch, a kinked wire that it couldn’t uncoil.

Its handler was there at its side. “Good morning,” he said and for a split second, Cyberninja thought that his hair was dark like ink, shaded with shiny tones of blue from an emergency light. Then it blinked and once more its handler’s hair was brown, threaded through with hints of silver at his temples. “How are you feeling?”

For a split second it hesitated, wondering if its handler’s hair would change again but it remained the same color, like mud. It sat up. “It is functional.”

Its handler made a face. “We need to eat and then we’re assigned to a mission, even though we were promised some down time.”

“It is ready.”

Shaking his head, its handler gave it a grin that it couldn’t quite read—amused, despairing, frustrated, all in one. “Not yet you’re not,” he said cheerfully. “Fuel up first, then we’ll see what load-up they decide to give us. Wheels up in two hours, but we have plenty of time.” he looked over Cyberninja critically. “A hot shower to relax those muscles,” he added. “I’ll get some wraps as well from Medical—I don’t like the look of your legs but clearly we’re not given much of a choice in the matter.”

“It is functional,” it insisted and then hesitated.

“Yes,” its handler told it testily. It had the feeling that he wasn’t mad at it, though. “I had made the appointment about five fucking seconds before they announced the new mission. It will have to wait until we get back.”

“Yes, handler.”

Its handler grunted. “Get dressed,” he said. “We got a lot to do today.”

It thought about telling its handler about the dream—in theory, it was supposed to report such anomalies but…

Looking at its handler, it concluded that there were other things on his mind that drew such a terrible frown, that drew such deep lines around his eyes and over his forehead. It would not report the dreams for the moment—later, when the mission was over and they had time, it would remind its handler that it needed repairs and reprogramming.

For now…it was dangerous but…it kind of liked having the memory of its dream. Like one would collect a smooth stone, or perhaps one that was visually appealing.

It wasn’t supposed to _ prefer _ or _ collect _ —or _ like _—but…it found that it liked this idea.


	2. Smooth River Stones: 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been very excited to work on this some more. I'm having a lot of fun writing it and I'm eager to get to my favorite part. Unfortunately I can't tell you what that is because that will spoil it. ;)
> 
> Thanks, as always, to [IchigoWhiskey](https://twitter.com/ichigowhiskey) for being the instigator for this.

Cyberninja’s charge was still high. It struggled to remain still while its handler carefully treated its wounds.

“Still keyed up?” its handler asked sympathetically. “I know, I’m sorry.”

It wanted to toss its head like a horse, wanted to fidget, to _ move _. It wanted its handler to release it. But he didn’t, so it sat there, trying to keep still while he stitched its outer covering shut from a shot that Cyberninja hadn’t been able to dodge.

That was false: it _ could _ have dodged but _ chose _ not to.

Not when it knew that its handler stood behind it and that if it moved, its handler would die.

Why it was so attached to this handler, it would never know. Perhaps that was a question for the technicians, though likely it would not ask—to the technicians, it was a machine and nothing more; it should not ask questions.

Perhaps it was simply that the technicians had programmed such…affection into it. That made enough sense to Cyberninja.

its handler paused, rested a bloody hand on Cyberninja’s arm. Something beneath its dermal plating itched—it felt like it was missing something, like it needed to be doing something. In some ways, it was worse that it couldn’t decide what was wrong than the feeling of wrongness itself.

“Here,” its handler said with a sigh. “Let’s see if I can distract you a bit. Why don’t you tell me why you didn’t dodge that shot? Or the blade?”

“Its handler was in danger.”

Its handler grunted. “And? So were you. You nearly _ died _.”

“It is functional.”

“_ Damn it _ ,” its handler snapped. It flinched, but its handler’s hands were still gentle as it carefully stitched up its outer casing. “I hate when you do that,” he said and Cyberninja fell silent, sensing that this didn’t warrant a response. It wasn’t sure—but somehow, inexplicably sensed—that its handler wasn’t really mad at _ it _; he was mad at something else, or perhaps not even mad at all.

Its handler took a deep, shaky breath. “You walk in and limp out and say that your ‘functional’. There is no regard to your safety, there is no caution—you just fucking charge in and all I can do is stand back and watch as you get hurt again and again.” Tears welled up in his eyes but his hands remained steady. “All I can think of is…is ‘will I never see him again? Is this it? Do I finally see him die?’”

Him.

That was the wrong name. It wanted to correct its handler but he wasn’t done so it remained silent. Perhaps his grief was for someone else and Cyberninja had simply triggered it. It knew that its handler wore a ring around his neck—two actually, on a chain. Most likely it was from a spouse. Perhaps they had died.

Or worse in some ways—or it had been told it was, anyway—perhaps that spouse had left him.

Its handler peered into its face, his face full of a grief that was alien to Cyberninja. “And when I ask you why you fucking took that hit for me…all you say is ‘its handler was in danger’.”

He fell silent and Cyberninja let the quiet stretch between them for a while. The campfire, more to keep its handler warm in the chilly forest night, crackled; the sound of night life in the forest droned on, indifferent to the presence of the drone and its handler.

“It…apologizes,” Cyberninja said very carefully. It wasn’t sure it was the right response, if it _ should _ apologize—or was allowed to. “For distressing you.”

Briefly, it reviewed its protocols.

First: obey its handler.

Second: complete the mission.

Given its handler’s distress, it had been negligent in the first—or perhaps it had an order that it was not aware of.

“If its handler orders it,” it said very carefully. “It…will be…careful.”

Its handler barked a painful-sounding laugh. His hands gently tied off the cording that was used to seal Cyberninja’s dermal plating. Earlier that day, Cyberninja had also seen those hands crumple an old-fashioned doorknob and snap a rifle in half. Now they were gentle, as if touching something delicate, like fine glass.

Cyberninja had a very sudden and vivid image. An inverted glass bowl, created so wonderfully that the fish painted on the sides seemed to swim through the pale blue sky—it looked like staring down into a koi pond rather than up at a wind chime hanging from an enameled wooden eave. A metal rod attached to a paper tag bobbed and twisted merrily in the little breeze, tapping against the edges of the bowl.

Then the vision was gone, disappearing as quickly as it had appeared.

Its handler scoffed. “’If its handler orders’,” he mocked. His hands were still gentle as he cleaned the fluid that had spilled over its dermal plating. He put a thin gauze pad over the tear and began winding a clean roll of gauze around its arm and shoulder. “I’d rather you safe than you complete the mission. You’re not disposable.”

But he sounded tired, more exhausted. Perhaps the adrenaline rush of combat and escape was beginning to leave him—he was only human, after all.

It hadn’t left Cyberninja; it still boiled in it.

“It apologizes,” Cyberninja said carefully.

Its handler scoffed. “But you’re not sorry. Sorry is something you can’t fucking feel.” He tied off the gauze and cut off the excess. Then he sighed, a complete and alarming shift of emotion. “You’re still keyed up, aren’t you? You never could settle down after a mission.”

“You are injured,” Cyberninja observed, unsure how to respond to its handler’s strange questions. “Will you allow it to tend to you?”

Grunting, its handler sat back. “Fine,” he said and reached in his coat for his cigars. Cyberninja tried not to stare—this was a side of its handler that it had not seen before and…as dangerous as it was, it wanted to know.

He pulled out a cigar case and selected one. Seeing it staring, he snapped the case closed and handed it to Cyberninja. Unsure what he wanted it to do, it took the case, its prosthetic fingers clicking against the metal.

It was scratched, no longer polished, but its handler was clearly not one to indulge in too many luxuries. The metal was sturdy despite its pretty veneering, and there was an engraved message that Cyberninja didn’t read.

But it saw that it was from “SH”.

Cyberninja opened it and pulled out a match, which it lit and held out for its handler to light his cigar. He grunted and leaned close, bringing the cut end over the flame. It crackled as he puffed, a bit of smoke rising from the end and more from around its handler’s lips; the cherry fluttered and then caught. Cyberninja shook its wrist to extinguish the match, tucked the evidence away in one of its pouches, and returned the case to its handler, who was looking at it strangely.

Unsure of what it should do, it said, “it will tend its handler’s injuries now.” Its handler grunted and still unsure, Cyberninja reached out and gently unwound the thick cape from around its handler’s neck. This it folded carefully, the fingers of its whole hand—the one still intact from its original design, still covered in dermal plating that mimicked human callouses—catching on the material.

Wool, it thought to itself. Hand-woven. Somehow both heavier and lighter than it expected. This close, it could see hints of red fiber—it was dyed black, was originally red.

It reached for the straps of its handler’s chestplate, found them along the sides of his body. He was wearing a sweat-soaked plaid shirt that was already staining from the wound to its handler’s shoulder.

Its handler sat still, taking deep draws of his cigar. From the mild smell, it was a good cigar, but he still breathed it in like he needed it to breathe—and like he needed the nicotine. An addict, then.

Very carefully, it unbuttoned its handler’s shirt and eased the material aside to look at the wound. The shirt stuck to his skin but the wound didn’t look terrible. It reached for the med-kit and its handler sucked in a breath as it began to clean the wound and the skin around it.

“Your hands are gentle,” its handler said in a strangely absentminded kind of way.

Unsure of how to answer, it said, “It does not want to hurt its handler any more than he has already been hurt.”

He laughed bitterly and a wave of smoke passed over Cyberninja’s face, taking with it the scent of tobacco and a hint of vanilla. It triggered something in their distant memory files, the ones that had been chosen to remain after each reconfiguration.

No, the memory files went further back. There was no time stamp attached to them, no sign of time that should have passed since the memory file.

“There are some things you just can’t ever fix,” its handler said, breaking its concentration.

It decided that perhaps those memory files were simply corrupted—that was why there was no time stamp. Perhaps it had simply smelled the tobacco-and-vanilla smell on its handler during other missions. He was certainly smoking often enough in combat.

“There are some hurts that you cannot ease.” Its handler sighed, seemingly oblivious to Cyberninja’s thoughts. That was fair—it wasn’t supposed to have any.

“This…is an injury,” it said carefully. “With the application of biotics, it can be healed.”

Its handler sighed, grunting as it continued to very gently clean the cut. “Not what I meant.”

“It apologizes.”

“Wasn’t you.”

Its handler took another long drag of his cigar as Cyberninja inspected the wound. “It will not require stitches,” it informed its handler. “But butterfly bandages and the careful application of biotic ointment should be sufficient.”

“You have biotic ointment?” its handler asked sharply, all languor disappearing. His teeth ground into the nice cigar.

For a moment it considered the question. “It has biotic ointment,” it said carefully, unsure quite what was wrong. It wasn’t so bad a wound that its handler should be concerned.

Its handler took a deep breath and then exhaled around the ruined cigar. He continued to hold it loosely in his teeth as he seemed to try and get himself under control. “Why did you not say so sooner?”

“It is in the standard field kit assigned to it,” it said carefully. “It consists of a basic first aid equipment, emergency rations, and an emergency repair kit should it receive damage in the field.”

Muttering to himself, its handler took another deep breath. When he spoke again, it was very slowly, enunciating each word dangerously. It had heard him speak this way only a few other times before during interrogations.

“Why did you not use it on yourself?”

It removed the ointment from its kit and showed it to its handler. “It is not to be used on droids,” it said. “It would not work.”

For a long moment, its handler stared at it with an unreadable expression. He tapped Cyberninja’s arm. “What covers your body?”

“Dermal plating.”

He took a deep breath. “It will work on your dermal plating,” he gritted out. “I give you permission to use some on your wound.”

Cyberninja squeezed a dollop on its fingers and gently rubbed it into its handler’s wound. He hissed in pain but the ointment did its job; the wound began to knit itself together. 

Its handler watched it with an unreadable look. Diffidently, it kept its head lowered and instead watched as the wound disappeared. It made no move to open the bandage on its arm and apply the precious ointment on its own damage. The ointment wasn’t for droids and its handler hadn’t ordered it, anyway.

“What are your orders?” its handler asked unexpectedly.

A baffling question. Cyberninja tried to hide its confusion, as it wasn’t meant to feel such things—it was supposed to, after all, obey without question. “It is to obey its handler,” it said as it was expected. “And it is to finish the mission assigned to it.”

“To what extent?” its handler pressed.

“It is to obey its handler,” Cyberninja repeated.

Its handler frowned, drummed his fingers on his knee as he thought. “If I were to order you to go with me to Overwatch,” he said. “What would be your reaction?”

Cyberninja wasn’t sure how to answer. This was hypothetical, was it not? Was this a test of its programming?

For a long time, the only sound between them was the crackle of the fire. It triggered a corrupted memory file of a ring of laughing faces and warm hands on its shoulders; a moment later, it was gone as if it had never been.

The smell of woodsmoke and liquor still lingered in its nose.

Its handler seemed to take pity on it. “Tell me the hierarchy of obedience,” he said, frowning severely. “Walk me through your…_ programming _.” The last word was spat out like a curse.

“It is to obey its handler above all else,” Cyberninja said immediately. “It is to complete the mission assigned to it. It cannot directly harm its handler or any members of Talon.”

Silence swelled between them. It had the feeling that something important was happening but it couldn’t be sure. At last, its handler nodded once. “Then I shall risk it,” he said as if to himself. Cyberninja said nothing, waiting for further instruction. “Power down to sleep,” he ordered Cyberninja after another heavy pause. “I will take first watch.”

There was still charge shifting beneath its skin. It didn’t want to sleep, but an order was an order.

It lay down and closed its eyes.

* * *

It woke, not from the whistle, but from the hands that carded through its hair. Opening its eyes, it found its handler staring down at it with a strange look on his face. His hand slipped down to cup Cyberninja’s face, his thumb brushing its cheek.

His face was strangely open now in the hazy morning in the forest. Surprised despite its programming, it stared up at its handler. He looked scared, which made something awful twist in its chest.

He looked hopeful and raw, the way he had sometimes seen the Talon grunts look at each other when their comrades came back from the field and were rushed to Medical. It was not its place to ask, but it wondered what there was to fear here.

Then its handler sighed and his face changed again in a silent signal to Cyberninja. He whistled Cyberninja’s activation tune. “How did you sleep?”

“It rested well,” Cyberninja replied honestly. “It dreamt.”

“What did you dream of?”

Cyberninja hesitated, not sure why it had admitted such a thing. “It doesn’t remember,” it said quietly. “Just that it did.” There was a voice, and echo from the memory; a snippet of nonsensical music. It didn’t tell its handler this—there was not enough information to accurately report.

_ I play to win! _

“Are you ready to move out?” its handler asked.

Cyberninja climbed to its feet. Its limbs were stiff but after walking a quick revolution around the small campfire which had long since burned out, it stopped in front of its handler. “It is ready.”

“We’re pushing hard today,” its handler said briskly as he broke down camp. “There is a town five kilometers away. We will steal a hovercar there and proceed fifteen kilometers south to the next town where we will steal another hovercar. If need be, we can hitch a ride on the hovertrain, but I would rather we didn’t. I’d like to be in Colorado by this evening.”

A tall order, and a strange one.

“Yes, handler,” it said instead of asking the alarming amount of questions that seemed to bob in its chest. They clamored like children, demanding to be asked, and Cyberninja didn’t know what to do. “Handler,” it said diffidently and then paused.

About to leave, its handler stopped and looked at Cyberninja. “Yes?”

There was no time to hesitate, now. “It needs to see a technician,” it said carefully.

“Are you injured?” its handler seemed alarmed in a way that it had never seen him. “What’s wrong?”

How to explain it?

“It is…beginning to operate outside of its design parameters,” it said carefully.

Its handler’s eyes narrowed. “How so?” he demanded in a sharp tone that he had never used on Cyberninja before.

Unsure what it had done wrong, it hesitated again. Its handler’s eyes softened and he stepped closer, pressing his gloved hand against Cyberninja’s cheek. The touch was strangely calming. In the past, others had touched it but the gentle clasp of his hand on its cheek, much like the gentle touch this morning, made it settle.

If it were not a machine, it might think that it was instinctual.

“I’m sorry,” its handler said in a gentler tone. “I didn’t mean to snap. But I need to know this. What is wrong?”

“It is functional,” it assured its handler. “But its programming is…degrading. A meeting with the technicians is required. At your earliest convenience,” it added hastily.

Its handler leaned close. “Is this related to your dreams?” he asked. “Is this related to earlier?” It hesitated again and that seemed to be all the response that its handler needed. He checked his timekeeper and then the position of the sun with a new urgency. “Alright,” he said. “Alright. Keep me informed. Are you able to move as I outlined earlier?”

“Yes, handler.”

“Good; let’s go.”

* * *

“You have a lot of nerve showing up here,” the blonde doctor hissed, her clipboard clenched in a white-knuckled grip. Her nametag read _ Ziegler _. “What have you done to Baptiste?”

Its handler huffed. “Ange—”

“_ Don’t _ ,” the doctor snarled. “Don’t _ ‘Ange’ _ me. What did you do to him?”

“Nothing,” its handler said, sounding annoyed. “He didn’t even notice us, did he?” that was directed toward Cyberninja, but it was a hypothetical question; it didn’t answer. “Cyberninja, sit.”

It followed its handler’s pointing arm to the medical berth and sat obediently. It wasn’t ordered to release its weapon, so it held it in its lap.

“You’re a monster,” the doctor snarled at its handler.

“I wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t important,” its handler snapped. “Ange, just fucking _ listen _ to me, okay? We’re running out of time.”

The last was said softer, its handler looking at Cyberninja. That same look of raw hope was in his eyes again and it twisted something in Cyberninja’s chest.

“They’re not going to want such an important asset out from under their thumb,” its handler continued, looking back at the doctor. “Once they figure out that we’re not among the dead, they’re going to be looking for us—for _ him _.”

The doctor scowled. “Why should I believe you?” she demanded. There was something brittle in her eyes and face; there was a matching look of hope. “You lied to us before.”

“And if Fareeha was made into a weapon,” its handler said softly. “And you were told that she would be killed if you did not become her handler, if you did not make sure that she _ functioned optimally _, would you not drop everything for that?”

The office was deadly silent for a long moment. Cyberninja was certain that it could be cut with a knife—an alarming deviation from its programming, but now was not the time to speak to its handler about it. As far as it was aware, this was a combat situation and discussions of weakness had no place here.

“What do you want?” the doctor asked at last, very quietly.

“Hold out your hand,” its handler said immediately. “Palm up.”

The doctor hesitated, looking between Cyberninja and its handler. Then she obeyed. Her hand wasn’t even shaking and she met its handler’s eyes with a challenging blue stare.

“Cyberninja,” its handler ordered. “Hold out your hand.”

Immediately, it offered one arm, held out at the shoulder.

“Hold his hand,” its handler told the doctor. It wanted to recoil from her touch; it knew what its handler was doing and the sudden wave of revulsion surprised it. When the doctor reached out to take its hand, it jerked back.

Its handler and the doctor stared at it with wide eyes. “What’s wrong?” Its handler asked. “Tell me the truth.”

“It likes this handler,” it said. Surely it would already be punished for resisting the last order; at this point, there would be little more that could be done that would be worse. The technicians would fiddle around with its processor and wipe its memories; they would adjust everything so that the very world felt like a thousand needles piercing his flesh.

The doctor looked at its handler with wide eyes. Her hand dropped. “Jesse?”

“That’s what’s been happening,” its handler said softly. “That’s why I needed to get him out _ now _—before the technicians fuck with his brain some more. Something in there’s fighting the programming and…this is all I could think to do.”

He looked at it. “Cyberninja,” he ordered and his voice cracked. “Hold out your arm. She is a good handler.”

Something welled up in it like the crest of some great wave. It wanted to resist; it wanted _ this _ handler, not this unnamed doctor.

It was spared such a decision of disobedience when the door burst open. Cyberninja moved without thinking, shoving its handler back and blocking him with its body.

“You!” the omnic that Cyberninja remembered from its previous battle with Overwatch exclaimed. The one that had called it “brother”.

Then it charged at Cyberninja—no, it charged at its _ handler _.

It moved without thinking. The omnic was trying to get around it, trying to get at its handler; it moved _ toward _ the omnic, caught it midair as it drew the sword on its back.

_ Ōdachi _ , something in it whispered. _ It’s an ōdachi _.

Whatever it was called, wherever that memory came from, it caught the blade with its right hand and wrenched it aside, throwing the swordsomnic off balance. It slammed into the wall and the medical berth, legs caught vulnerably in the air by its surprise.

Instead of taking advantage of this vulnerability, Cyberninja backed up toward its handler again, keeping itself defensively between him and the omnic. It was logical and yet…and yet its entire body felt aflame. _ It burned and yet was not consumed _.

Watching the omnic leap smoothly to its feet and stare, its faceplate unreadable, Cyberninja realized that something was very wrong. Something had _ snapped _—some kind of component that it didn’t know it had—and it felt it as clearly as if it had witnessed it break.

The fire, the burning, that was a part of it. The world seemed to be shaking, everything narrowing down to three things: to its handler, to the omnic, and to keeping itself between the two of them. Everyone else—quite dangerously—became second to those three things.

It was _ angry _, it realized. This flame that made it snarl behind its mask was the same that it had witnessed in others. In its previous handlers, in the technicians that worked on it, in those that it fought on behalf of Talon.

So, this is what it felt like.

This flame that burned and did not consume, this flame that thrummed and roared through each muscle cable and wire of its being, was not programmed into it.

But beside that fire was a sense of ice, like the cryo-gun of the Overwatch agent Mei-Ling Zhou. That, it knew, was fear, and it didn’t understand it any more than it understood the fury that burned it.

“Why are you protecting him?” the omnic demanded.

Cyberninja did not answer. It drew its combat blade, a small thing in comparison to the omnic’s _ ōdachi _, and shifted into a ready stance in case it should decide to attack again.

Then the doctor, who had not shrunk away like a civilian doctor would have, stepped boldly between them. “Genji, stop,” she said.

“Angela,” the omnic protested.

“Put away your blade,” she ordered the omnic. Reluctantly the omnic sheathed its _ ōdachi _ but Cyberninja knew that it was far from being disarmed; it remembered seeing it fling projectiles from hidden grooves in its wrists. The doctor looked at Cyberninja. “I won’t be so bold as to order you to put _ your _ blade away,” she said tartly. “Jesse?”

It felt its handler gently put a hand on its back—unusual since its handler rarely touched it, especially in battle. “Cyberninja,” he ordered. “Put away your knife.” He said nothing about the bow still in Cyberninja’s other hand.

Of course, it obeyed—it was used to obedience—but as the blade clicked back in place, it realized that whatever had snapped had also altered the protocols that influence its obedience.

For a moment it felt lost.

What was there but obedience? What would it do if it could choose? Free will was a terrifying thought and the ice of fear nearly froze its servos.

But this was its handler. It…_ liked _ this handler.

It chose to obey him—it _ would _ choose to obey him.

“Genji,” the doctor said. “Please leave.” The omnic hesitated. “Now,” she told the omnic firmly.

“Anglea,” the omnic protested and for a moment Cyberninja was perplexed. Given free will, the omnic would disobey an order. Why? What would it gain for questioning its handler?

The doctor gave the omnic a pointed glare and this Cyberninja was familiar with. How dare the omnic disobey its handler in front of others.

_ Dishonor _, a voice from a corrupted memory file said in Cyberninja’s processor. To go along with the simple word was a burst of laughter that didn’t match the voice.

At last the omnic caved and left, closing the door behind it. The doctor looked at Cyberninja, then the damaged medical berth. She looked displeased. “Sit,” she told it, gesturing to one of the plastic chairs.

“Go on,” its handler said behind it.

For all its thoughts of obedience in regards to the omnic, it still hesitated. Was it safe? Could it leave its handler’s side? It had moved here to protect him—would its handler still be protected? Would the doctor try to harm him?

“Ange and I go way back,” its handler told it quietly. His voice was strangely quiet; he sounded exhausted. “If she tries to harm me, it's because I deserve it.” The doctor scowled past Cyberninja at its handler. “Go on. Sit down.”

It wasn’t reassured. The doctor seemed to sense this. “I won’t hurt him,” she promised. “And I will stand over here if it will make you feel better.”

She wasn’t armed with anything that Cyberninja couldn’t stop if it stepped away. It still regarded her steadily, knowing that its stare tended to unnerve people.

The doctor must have been made of sterner stuff—a phrase that momentarily baffled Cyberninja—because she didn’t look away.

Very slowly it moved, keeping a wary eye on the doctor, and sat down in the chair. It braced its legs to be ready to move quickly if need be and then fell still.

She watched him for a moment longer before turning back to its handler. The skin around her lips and eyes were tight. “He reminds me so much of Hanzo.”

“I’ve been seeing it more and more,” its handler agreed. “Which is why I risked this trip.”

The doctor glanced at Cyberninja again. It could tell that she wanted to move but remained where she promised. “Why me?” she asked.

“Anyone else would have shot first and asked questions later,” its handler said, moving to sit next to Cyberninja. He threw himself into the plastic seat, making it creak and groan. “I could keep him from attacking,” he said, jerking his chin toward Cyberninja, “but all bets are off if they attack first. You saw what happened with Genji.”

The doctor crossed her arms over her chest and drummed the fingers of one hand on the elbow of the other. “They may call for your incarceration,” she said and Cyberninja tightened the grip on its bow. Her blue eyes flicked down to his arm and then back at its handler. “I doubt he’d like that.”

“He wouldn’t,” its handler agreed. “That’s why I tried to get him to accept you as a handler. There are worse people out there for him to obey without question.” He turned to look at Cyberninja. “Explain to me why you don’t want her to be your handler.”

“You are its handler,” Cyberninja said simply. To say anything more would be to show how broken its programming was.

Its hander grunted. “He’s started to show signs of free will. Little things, but its there.”

That got the doctor’s attention. “You’re sure?” she pressed.

“Undeniable,” its handler grunted. He turned to Cyberninja again. “This is Angela Ziegler. Confirm.”

“Angela Ziegler,” Cyberninja repeated. “Lead medic of the Overwatch—” it stopped when its handler held up a hand. “Confirmed,” it said because that’s what its handler wanted it to do.

“I hereby transfer authority over to her,” its handler said. “Cyberninja, confirm.”

It did not want to confirm.

Free will was dangerous but this…it wanted this—it wanted _ this handler _.

It _ wanted _ and was dizzy with that forbidden power.

“It will not confirm,” it said and watched its handler’s face.

He grimaced and rubbed his forehead. “Stubborn bastard,” he muttered. “Cyberninja, Dr. Ziegler is your new handler. Confirm.”

“It will not confirm,” it said again.

The doctor turned her head away as if to hide a laugh. “Yeah, that’s definitely Hanzo.”

Hanzo. The name struck a chord. It remembered a dream of a man asking it to marry him.

He had called it Hanzo.

Perhaps it was a downloaded memory. Perhaps she was mistaken—or perhaps the technicians forgot to wipe all of this Hanzo’s mannerisms.

Its handler sighed and seemed to deflate with the motion. “There’s hope for him,” he said tiredly. “But…you know what’s going to happen.”

The smile fell from Dr. Ziegler’s face. “Yes,” she said very quietly. “Jesse—”

“No,” its handler said. “I get it—I fucking _ deserve _it for what I’ve done but…” he looked at Cyberninja, something in his eyes making Cyberninja hurt all over. Then he looked away and Cyberninja was left with the haunting memory of that look.

The doctor shook her head. “It’s just as well that he won’t leave you,” she said. “I’m sure with enough explanation—”

“That nobody would listen to,” its handler interrupted.

“—people would understand,” Dr. Ziegler continued firmly.

“They won’t trust that I won’t turn him against the team,” its handler argued.

Dr. Ziegler turned to look at Cyberninja, then did a double-take. “What’s wrong with him?” she asked sharply.

Its handler turned to Cyberninja and leaped to his feet in alarm. “Report.”

“It is functional,” it said though it felt as if the world was tilting.

The doctor leaped forward and it tried to move to counter her but it couldn’t move its right arm to lift its bow in a block.

Its handler began swearing. “Throwing Genji like that must have opened his wounds.”

_ It is not injured _ , it tried to insist. _ It is functional. _ Darkness was creeping in on its vision.

The doctor touched him as its handler pulled its bow from its fingers. It felt terrifyingly weak.

“Cyberninja be still,” its handler ordered, open fear on his face. The doctor left, flung open the door and yelled something. Her voice was second to its handler’s though. He said, “Rest. You’re injured. Dr. Ziegler will treat you. Power down.”

An order was an order and this one it was happy to obey; its handler couldn’t order it to accept a new handler when it was powered down, after all.

It was in the process of obeying when green light filled the office. There was a voice that did not belong to its handler bellowing, “_ Ryūjin no ken wo kurae! _”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feel free to come and yell at me on twitter at [Dracoduceus](https://twitter.com/dracoduceus). There, you can find more information about the stories I post and where they are posted to!
> 
> Thank you for reaching the end! I hope you enjoyed the ride!
> 
> Until next time!
> 
> ~DC


	3. Smooth River Stones: 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It powers on to an unfamiliar setting and an unfamiliar handler.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To say that I am enjoying this series is an understatement. 
> 
> And it's not just because of tears. Not even mostly...although I do enjoy them. ;)

_“I never knew fear until I saw him lying there,” it said to someone. Its voice was shaky. “He was just so still and there was so much blood.”_

_“He will be fine,” another voice said. “Jesse’s stubborn—he’ll pull through.”_

_It took a deep breath and in its dreaming mind was amazed at how empty it felt, as if all of its internal workings had been scooped out. _Hollow_._

_“Dr. Ziegler’s skill is…immense,” it said weakly. “I do not need to fear and yet…”_

_A hand rested on his. “Maybe you know, don’t you?” the voice asked. “That you love him?”_

_Taking another shaky breath, it nodded. “Yes,” it agreed in its dream. “Without question.”_

* * *

It powered on to an unfamiliar setting and looked around.

It was in a medical center, hooked up to machines more suited to humans than a drone. Curious.

The woman, Dr. Ziegler, was at the foot of its berth. “Operational override Juliet-Echo-Sierra-Sierra-five-five-seven-nine. Confirm.”

“Confirmed,” Cyberninja said, recognizing the code—it was the code that instructed it to temporarily obey a technician doing repairs on its chassis.

Dr. Ziegler regarded it steadily for a moment. “I’m going to rid a string of codes to you,” she said. “Confirm receipt of each.”

“Acknowledged.”

She nodded once, her clear blue eyes locked on it. They were unnerving in their intensity and it was unnerved that it was so uncomfortable.

The codes she read back to it were…uncomfortable ones. It seemed that its handler was determined to give it away—in the combination of codes given, she would have control of most of its functionality without the title of handler.

She gave it a shrewd look. “You think I’m trying to take the place of your handler,” she said. “For what it’s worth, I promise that I’m not. Jesse and I agreed that this is for the best—and this…temporary shift in control would benefit you as well as him.” After a moment’s pause to let that process, she stepped around the bed within reach of it in a move of bravery that none of its other technicians had been willing to do.

Not without its handler nearby.

Not without it being in restraints.

Despite itself, it was impressed by this medic’s bravery—or stupidity.

“Do you understand where you are?” the doctor asked crisply.

“It is in Medical.”

“Where?” Dr. Ziegler pressed.

For a moment, it considered that question. It was not meant to _guess_; if it knew, it answered but if it didn’t, it said so. “It does not know where.”

Dr. Ziegler regarded it for a moment. “Surely you have a guess?” she asked.

“It is not meant to guess,” Cyberninja said slowly, unsure of how this temporary handler would react. Most did not like it when Cyberninja said anything other than “yes, handler” or “no, handler”.

“I would like you to guess,” Dr. Ziegler told it. Despite the wording, it was clearly an order.

Still, it hesitated. “It is with Overwatch.”

Dr. Ziegler nodded. “Very good,” she said. “Do you know where the base is?”

It didn’t and said so but the question triggered a memory that hadn’t quite been erased all the way: sea cliffs and the smell of the salt air. A rocky beach and a submerged pier. A cooler full of beer and shapeless figures that had once been people surrounding it in celebration.

“By the ocean,” it guessed. The windows were sealed shut and blacked out—presumably to keep it from knowing what was outside. “Overwatch’s Watchpoint: Gibraltar is located in the Mediterranean—"

Dr. Ziegler held up a hand and it stopped. “You are not at Gibraltar,” she corrected. “But you are correct that you are by the ocean. Do you know anything else about this base?”

“It only knows the information that Talon deems necessary,” it told her diffidently. “The knowledge of Overwatch’s primary base of operations is not necessary for its function.”

She gave it an exasperated look. Was she not asking it such questions to know what Talon knows?

Dr. Ziegler shook her head. “You have questions,” she observed. “Ask them.”

It was not allowed questions and it paused in surprise at the unexpected freedom. But that freedom was terrifying—just as terrifying as it had been in the clinic. It had questions—those it hoarded just as much as it hoarded those strange visions of soft touches and smiling faces—but it didn’t dare ask them.

She made disappointed face and consulted the tablet in her hands. “You must be hungry.”

Cyberninja considered that. “It does not immediately require sustenance,” it told her. “But it recommends that it would be refueled within the next 24 hours.”

“I’m not letting you _starve_,” Dr. Ziegler told it sharply. Then she took a deep breath as if to calm herself. “Jesse said that you were feed on special fuel,” she said, sounding calmer. “Are you aware of the ingredients?”

“This was not necessary knowledge to its function,” Cyberninja replied. Was this a test?

She sighed. “I’ll see if I can ask Jesse,” she decided. “But for now, I suppose a simple protein supplement should be sufficient?”

Was she asking it? It wasn’t sure how to respond except to tell her, “It is not human. A protein supplement would not be sufficient.”

A strange expression crossed the doctor’s face. Her nostrils flared as she took a deep, slow breath. “Noted,” she said tersely.

It wondered—a strange and terrifying freedom—what it had done to upset her.

“I will speak to Jesse to see if we can figure out how to refuel you properly,” she said. “In the meantime, I will find something and I would like you to consume it. Confirm order.”

“Confirmed,” Cyberninja replied. That was easy—obedience was comforting.

She peered at it again before walking away. The door closed heavily behind her and it could hear additional locking mechanisms snapping in place. Did they think that it would escape?

Perhaps it was a fair concern, it conceded after a moment. They would assume that it would search out its handler—and as soon as that thought registered, it _wanted_.

It wanted the familiarity of its handler and hadn’t realized how…how _comfortable_ it was around him. There was safety in obedience and it…_trusted_ its handler. To be so bereft…

Dr. Ziegler had not left any orders for it to review and had not ordered it to climb out of its berth so it remained in place, staring up at the ceiling. Stillness came second-nature to it—an object did not act upon its own, after all, and it was just an object for others to order around.

When it seemed that Dr. Ziegler would not soon return, it powered down to save energy.

* * *

It powered on again when the door opened and found itself missing the whistle of its handler. The song was familiar, the whistle somehow soothing something in it. To be missing that sound was…

It didn’t like the feeling. It was as if something fundamental was missing.

Dr. Ziegler had another with her, a dark-skinned man in his mid to late thirties. Cyberninja recognized him, of course: Talon had labeled him a traitor and had issued a standing order for Cyberninja to kill him on sight.

The man seemed to sense the shift in Cyberninja. “I hope you have control over him,” he said. “He is entering combat mode.”

Dr. Ziegler peered looked back and forth between them. “Stand down,” she ordered Cyberninja. “No combat unless I order it. Confirm order.”

“Order received,” Cyberninja replied though it hadn’t moved.

“What are your orders in regards to Dr. Augustin?” Dr. Ziegler asked.

“It has been ordered to kill on sight,” it told her.

She frowned. “Why? No, that’s a silly question.” She shook her head and took the tray from Jean-Baptiste Augustin’s hands. He had wisely chosen to stay by the door. “Sit up.” It obeyed. “Eat,” she ordered and handed it a bowl of soup.

“It cannot process soup,” it told her.

“I consulted Jesse,” she told it sternly. “He confirmed that this would be sufficient. Drink.” For a moment it considered the order before obeying. “How are you feeling?”

“It is functional,” it told her when it finished the bowl.

Dr. Ziegler made a face. “He wasn’t joking.”

“Talon would have programmed him to prioritize the mission over his own wellbeing,” Jean-Baptiste Augustin said from the door. “That is the only answer he would think to give—that he is functional and therefore able to complete the mission. No doubt he would be told that if he’s not functional, then he will be decommissioned—or worse.” 

Dr. Ziegler’s lips thinned as she pressed them together. “I see,” she said stiffly. To Cyberninja she said, “I want to know how you _feel_, not if you are functional.”

It didn’t know how to respond and said so to her obvious frustration.

“He won’t know how to ‘feel’,” Jean-Baptiste Augustin said tiredly. “You are just confusing him.”

The blonde doctor whirled. “I’d like to see _you_ do better,” she hissed. “What am I supposed to do, Baptiste?”

“Teach him to feel again,” the other man replied simply. “Start with his legs—I can see that the skin around them is inflamed.”

She looked down at Cyberninja’s legs and took a deep breath. “I’m going to begin a full physical on you,” she told Cyberninja. “Do you consent to this?”

For a moment it looked at her, unable to hide its surprise. “You only need to order it and it will obey.” She sucked in another breath and looked away from Cyberninja.

* * *

After Dr. Ziegler’s examination, Dr. Augustin left and an omnic entered the medical room.

Cyberninja recognized a member of the Shambali order of course, and was intrigued that the omnic didn’t shy away from it. From what it had seen of the Shambali—or knew of from the other teams’ reports that it had been allowed to access—they tended to shy away from Talon after the Widowmaker assassinated their leader.

“Greetings,” the omnic told it as it approached. Its voice was male-coded. “I am Tekhartha Zenyatta. What shall I call you?”

It didn’t respond, watching the omnic closely. The silence stretched.

“I don’t understand,” Dr. Ziegler said quietly. “He was speaking earlier.”

The omnic nodded serenely. “Who was asking the questions?” it asked. “Most likely they had wiped him of all independent thought and conditioned him to obey only a select few. If Jesse was his handler, then likely he is coded to obey only him.”

“I have…conditional control,” Dr. Ziegler said faintly.

“They you may order him to answer or not,” the omnic told her gently. The orbs around the Shambali’s neck pulsed as if with a processor of their own. Despite itself, Cyberninja was fascinated by their movement.

“Cyberninja,” Dr. Ziegler said hesitantly and it turned its attention to her. “I would like you to speak with Zenyatta. Do you understand?”

“Please clarify.”

Dr. Ziegler made a frustrated sound. “I don’t know if I can do this, Zen.”

“We must try,” the omnic told her firmly. “He doesn’t know what he’s allowed to talk about—that’s why he’s asking for clarification. If you are to handle him, you must learn to be very specific with your orders; anything too vague and he will be unable to obey them.”

The doctor looked away. Cyberninja’s fingers tingled, its torso constricting in the phantom memory of someone’s arms around it. _“He’ll be fine”_ a voice said to match the arms. It sounded like Dr. Ziegler’s. _“It was close, but he’ll be fine.”_

The memory faded just as quickly as it had arrived.

“Cyberninja,” Dr. Ziegler ordered. “I give you permission to discuss…anything with Zenyatta. Can you confirm?”

“Please clarify,” Cyberninja said dutifully. Was this another test?

“Give permission a little at a time,” the omnic coached her gently. “But be specific. For now, give him permission to discuss his protocols with me. We must take this slowly.”

The doctor nodded. Her eyes were wet but her voice was steady. “Cyberninja, I would like you to discuss your protocols with Zenyatta. Please confirm.”

“Confirmed,” Cyberninja replied. The doctor breathed an exaggerated sigh of relief that it didn’t understand.

Dr. Ziegler turned to look at Zenyatta. “Can I leave you here? Or…?”

“I would suggest that you remain if you are able,” the omnic told her. “He will require supervision and will require a handler nearby.” Without waiting for a response, it turned to Cyberninja. “What are your protocols for waking up in Medical?”

That was easy. “Obey its handler.”

“What are your hierarchy of commands?”

It answered each question dutifully. Dr. Ziegler moved to another corner of the room where she sat down heavily. She remained within sight but held her head in her hands as if she couldn’t bear to look at it.

For a moment, Cyberninja ignored the Shambali omnic and looked at her. It _hurt_, it realized; or it _thought_ it was hurt. But it wasn’t a pain that it could describe; a voice in it that spoke without words asked, _why can’t you look at me?_

“Are you distressed?” the omnic asked.

“No,” it replied because it was not meant to feel.

But it did. The omnic had given it the word it needed—it was distressed.

It wanted to ask the omnic if this was what it was like to ascend from a simple AI program programmed for obedience to something…to become an _omnic_ as opposed to a thoughtless machine. Had it felt this same…Otherness when it began to think the way that Cyberninja was feeling?

With painful clarity it remembered that moment of fear it had felt in the clinic. As if it had been submerged in cold water; the anger that burned in every fiber of its being and yet did not consume it.

It didn’t like it, it decided. These…feelings; thoughts. They were painful. They were…unnerving. It wanted—oh, it was nice to want but even then it was terrifying! But it wanted its handler. He did not look at it like it was broken and now that those words were in its mind, it understood.

Dr. Ziegler looked at it as if it was broken. She was a doctor so perhaps she was conditioned to think so, to look for something to fix but it was functional.

It just wanted its handler.

The omnic picked up one of the orbs around its neck and held it in both of its palms. “Here,” it told Cyberninja. “I would like you to take this.”

Cyberninja considered the order. When it looked at Dr. Ziegler, she nodded and ordered it to take the orb; it obeyed.

The orb was…_warm_. It could feel the gentle rumbling of antigrav motors beneath the delicate gold and platinum façade rumbling and yet…it felt like a heart was beating in its palms, slow and steady. From the many whorls of the complex design violet and golden light began to shine, first as if lit from within and then as if the orb were on fire.

_Burning and yet was not consumed_.

“The orb you hold in your hand is an interesting tool,” the omnic said. “It, as the other ones around my neck, allows me to understand the balance of Discord and Harmony—yin and yang, positive and negative, the balance of the world.”

It understood that the balance was a major pillar of Shambali belief, though where that knowledge came from, it wasn’t sure. Perhaps they had given it some of Widowmaker’s programming, or perhaps during a review it was discussed. The Shambali came up often, especially those that worked with Overwatch.

“One might think that you, given what you had gone through, might be full of Discord,” the omnic continued. “And yet I see that you are balanced. Why might that be?”

The omnic looked at it as if expecting an answer.

“Zen?” Dr. Ziegler asked. “What does it mean?”

“I do not know,” the omnic said serenely. “But it is an interesting thought. Are you in pain? No, physical pain is not something that will register. This is an emotional pain, emotional turmoil. Are you distressed?”

“It is not meant to feel,” it said automatically.

The omnic peered at it in interest. Though it had no way to make human facial expressions, it seemed to be looking at it very intently as if expecting something. “But you are,” it said. “I see now. You are; and you are afraid.”

It said nothing.

“There is nothing wrong with that fear,” the omnic said in a distant, knowing voice. “It is change and change is not always good. You do not feel the compulsion to mindlessly obey an order and yet you do it anyway because that is all you’ve ever known. This change is terrifying and you want the comfort and safety of your protocols. What is holding you back is no longer your programming, but yourself.”

In its hands, the orb continued to glow with steady gold and violet light. The tongues of flames danced with each other, threaded together and split.

_Wood smoke burned its eyes and nostrils; it seemed like wherever it moved, the smoke of the bonfire followed._

_Everyone was laughing as the waves crashed. The moon hung low on the horizon, turning the waters indigo and silver._

_A warm hand curled around its waist, ran up the dip in its back before disappearing._

_It felt colder for its loss._

The orb was on the ground at its feet, as lifeless as a broken toy. It was the sound of it falling that woke it from its stupor and it watched it roll around before coming to a stop at its right foot.

“Are you okay?” Dr. Ziegler asked from across the room. Her head had popped up like a startled animal, her eyes wide as she watched Cyberninja.

It seemed that the whole room held its breath. Her face fell when Cyberninja answered simply, “It is functional.”

* * *

They gave it a room.

The room was very simple, a small dormitory with an attached half bathroom. There was no window to see outside and only one entrance; still, it could see many ways for it to cause mischief if it was ordered to do so.

There was a narrow cot made up for someone to sleep on; beside it was a small box of folded clothes. It wondered how the inhabitant of this room might feel about having it there. Cohabitation certainly wouldn’t be a pleasant experience for them, as it was unlikely that they would have any control to order Cyberninja around.

And certainly, this was not Dr. Ziegler’s room.

“This is where you will be staying,” the doctor told it. “At least, you will be staying here for now. The door will not open for you but if you require anything, Athena has a microphone in the room to pick up your request.” She paused as if waiting for something and then hesitated. “Do you have any questions?”

It did. “What should it call the person that stays in this room?” it asked.

Dr. Ziegler looked confused and then she looked frustrated. It wondered what it had done wrong. “_You_ are staying here,” she told it firmly. “This is _your_ room for now. Until we can figure out how best to house you.”

It considered that and decided that it wasn’t enough clarification. It gestured toward the bed and the clothes laid out for someone. “This bed is not for it.”

A variety of expressions crossed Dr. Ziegler’s face. She bared her teeth at it. “It is,” she said. “This is _your_ room; yours alone. Or did Talon not give you a room?”

“It had a restoration station,” Cyberninja replied, though wasn’t sure if it had been a serious question or not. “That was all that was needed. It does not require a bed.”

Dr. Ziegler took a deep breath. “You have a bed; use it to rest,” she ordered through clenched jaws. “You may change into something more comfortable if you choose. I will bring your next meal in two hours; from there, I can take you to the communal showers to clean off.”

She left quickly before it could remind her that it could not _choose_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Love it? Hate it? Fell free to yell at me about it. I love to hear your feedback. 
> 
> I can also be found on Twitter at [Dracoduceus](https://twitter.com/dracoduceus).
> 
> ~DC


	4. Smooth River Stones: 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cyberninja makes its report.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Merry Christmas! Happy New Year! Have more Sad. 
> 
> This chapter would have been longer (I had more things written) but I felt that the ending here was stronger so I cut it a bit short. There is more to come and I promise it's cuter.
> 
> Kind of.

Washed and dressed in a new set of clothes, Cyberninja was suddenly very aware of Dr. Ziegler’s presence.

Was very aware that its true handler was not beside it. The realization felt…strange. Like hundreds of tiny insects had crept beneath its dermal plating and were running their many legs over its sensors. Its fingers twitched and it stopped in the middle of the hallway. Dr. Ziegler’s guards, the omnic that called it “brother” and an enormous woman with the body of a weightlifter, nearly ran into it.

“Where is its handler?” it asked before they could demand its obedience. The freedom to do so was still terrifying but even more terrifying was the thought that its handler might have been killed. The hold its programming had on it had degraded but it was still there enough that as much as it feared losing the handler it trusted the most, it was just as afraid of what it might feel when he was gone.

“Angela is your handler,” the omnic said; the weightlifter was silent, watching it with eyes as cold as ice.

A voice echoed in its memory. On the deeper scale of “feminine”, strong Slavic burr of an accent which did not narrow down where the speaker was from. “_I will break you_.”

It was not authorized to speak to the omnic so it couldn’t say that Dr. Ziegler was _not_ its handler. “Where is its handler?” it asked again. Dr. Ziegler still hadn’t quite turned around to face it. Was it about to be punished? Her posture implied it—it had memories of other handlers standing in a similar posture as they ordered the guards around it to beat it.

Well, she would have to order it. As far as it was concerned—and again, there was that terrifying freedom of choice—she didn’t have its loyalty.

“Why are you so determined to see him again?” Dr. Ziegler asked at last. Her voice was as rough as broken glass and the thought confused it. “He broke you; he _made you like this_.”

Did he? It didn’t know that. But as far as it had been aware, its handler had joined The Dollhouse _after_ it had been designed. And he certainly didn’t wield Cyberninja like a tool that had been commissioned.

At the same time, it felt doubt for that statement. It had seen him handle his weapons with a similar care that he directed at Cyberninja. Perhaps it _had_ been commissioned by him.

Then again, it had been assigned to multiple handlers before being assigned to its current one. Why would it have been assigned to anyone else if it was commissioned for service to one person in particular?

In any case, it didn’t matter. It _wanted_ its handler.

The feeling of a thousand imaginary insects on its inner workings increased. Could a Doll be broken by the lack of its handler?

“Where is its handler?” it asked a third time.

The weightlifter gritted her teeth; the omnic clenched its fists. Cyberninja watched it out of its periphery—it was _fast_ and it new that it was always armed—but it didn’t dare take its eyes off of Dr. Ziegler.

“Why do you want to see him?” Dr. Ziegler asked, turning around to look at it.

“It is required,” it lied.

Dr. Ziegler frowned at it. “Explain.”

“It is required to report to its handler daily,” it said. While not the whole truth, it was truth enough—an adage that it had heard its handler use more than once. “Even in the presence of a temporary handler.”

“How do we know you’re not lying?” the weightlifter asked, speaking for the first time. Her voice matched the memory clip. _I will break you_.

When it didn’t answer, Dr. Ziegler repeated the question. “It is programmed to always tell the truth,” it said—which was true. It simply didn’t mention that its programming had degraded enough for it to lie.

For it to _feel_.

It suspected that Dr. Ziegler might think that it was being dishonest but she looked unsure, biting her lip. “I think we should,” she told the omnic. “He should…he should know.”

“Why?” the omnic asked bitterly. It wasn’t used to hearing such feeling in an omnic’s voice. Even Zenyatta’s had a kind of inhuman neutrality. “After all he’s done, do you think he even…”

Dr. Ziegler looked at the weightlifter. “Zarya?”

It could feel her hard eyes inspecting it. “Let him,” she said after a long pause.

“This is a terrible idea,” the omnic snapped. “You’re only going to make it worse. We’re supposed to be trying to _fix_ him, not let him regress!”

Dr. Ziegler glanced at the omnic before turning back to Cyberninja. “We will go back to your quarters,” she said. “After preparations, we will take you to see…McCree. Confirm order.”

“Order not confirmed,” Cyberninja said. The doctor made a frustrated sound. “Time frame has not been specified.” It heard the weightlifter chuckle, her voice low and rumbling.

“Always a contrary bastard,” she said.

Dr. Ziegler scowled at the weightlifter before turning back to Cyberninja. “What is your required time frame?” she asked through gritted teeth.

“Immediately,” Cyberninja replied.

“Angela,” the omnic hissed. “This is a _terrible _idea.”

Dr. Ziegler looked at the omnic and Cyberninja recognized that look—she expected total obedience. The omnic either didn’t recognize the look or chose to ignore it. Its vents hissed in frustration.

She turned back to Cyberninja. “We will return to your quarters,” she told it crisply. “You will wait with Zarya and Genji for five minutes. In those five minutes, I will arrange for you to visit your handler. When I return, we will all walk to see him together. Confirm order.”

“Confirmed,” Cyberninja said, keeping the reluctance from its voice.

It did not add that if she was not back in the five minutes promised, then it would go searching for its handler. From the look she gave it, she understood anyway. Shaking her head, she turned and began walking; this time Cyberninja followed.

* * *

“He’s so broken,” the omnic said faintly as they waited.

The weightlifter didn’t say anything, standing prepared in a corner as she watched Cyberninja. Her posture was rigid and ready, poised like a dog waiting for the order to attack; her eyes were intent but not aggressive, watching it as if expecting to have to intervene.

What did she think it would do? Perhaps she, too, knew that it would step into action should Dr. Ziegler not return in the allotted time.

_“Do not skip leg day,”_ the weightlifter’s voice echoed from corrupted memory files in its processor. Why would it know her voice? Perhaps she was a celebrity and it had heard her speak on one of its assignments; it doubted that she was a target, or she would not be there. _“Your body is a _temple_, not Baba Yaga’s house!”_ There was booming laughter from her throaty voice and another’s.

“What if he doesn’t ever come back?” the omnic fretted.

The weightlifter grunted. “You need to decide,” she said gruffly, not taking her eyes off of Cyberninja. “Are you speaking _to_ him, or _around_ him? Do you speak to him as a person that is present in this room, or do you speak of him as if he is an object?”

“I’m trying to help him,” the omnic hissed.

“You want something that cannot be done,” the weightlifter said. With her eyes on Cyberninja, it felt like she was talking to it as well. “You want something back that cannot be returned, not fully. And while you hope for something that you cannot have, you only reinforce that which you’re trying to prevent.”

The omnic paced.

Cyberninja made note of the conversation and continued to count down the time.

Fifteen seconds before the promised five minutes were up, Dr. Ziegler walked into the room. “Everything’s ready,” she said curtly. “Follow me.” It obeyed eagerly and counted the steps and turns that Dr. Ziegler took. If she was aware of this, she gave no sign; likewise, the weightlifter and the omnic gave no sign that they were aware of what it was doing.

It was led to what appeared to be some form of brig, or had been at one point. The years had not been kind to it: the tiles were dark with grime and dust, with only a thin path of white to show where people had recently walked. Overhead, the lights were dim and flickering and the burning feeling returned.

The transition from the brightly-lit halls to the dim brig was jarring, but it was little issue for Cyberninja and the omnic. It waited impatiently for the weightlifter and Dr. Ziegler’s organic—and much more fallible—eyes to adjust.

“They couldn’t even change the lights?” Dr. Ziegler asked, disgusted.

“He doesn’t deserve it,” the omnic hissed. Its voice reminded Cyberninja of water on hot rocks.

_An image formed in its mind: wooden walls, a furnace with a pile of rocks in the middle. There were other people too, reclining on wooden benches. One woman wore a bikini, and a few of the men had white towels over their groins to cover their nudity; everyone else was naked, relaxing in the heat and the steam._

_“I can see people,” a voice said, though it sounded more like teasing than a true complaint. “More steam!”_

_Someone stood up from where they were lounging beside it. Parts of their figure were blurry, as if it couldn’t see clearly in the steam that curled lazily through the close air of the sauna._

_“Have some shame,” someone said. Her face was likewise blurry—certainly this must be a corrupted memory, then._

_“If you got it, flaunt it,” the person standing said, twisting to look over their shoulder at Cyberninja. Their voice was masculine and made something in Cyberninja’s chest seize. Belatedly, it realized that it recognized this voice._

_Jesse McCree swayed his hips and laughed as some of the others in the sauna made noises of disgust—mocking or otherwise. He picked up a wooden dipper and poured water over the rocks in the furnace. They hissed like the omnic’s vents and released more steam into the air._

_It couldn’t get over the way that its handler turned and smiled at it._

Dr. Ziegler walked forward and like a string tied them together, Cyberninja followed jerkily. There was an office at the end of the hallway and Dr. Ziegler pulled open the door.

Here, at least, the lights were in better condition; a single golden bulb shone steadily and cast garish shadow on the two men in the room. One was its handler, tied to a chair; the other was an older man that seemed to be trying to pretend that he hadn’t passed middle age.

Cyberninja assessed him as a threat. He was certainly very fit and stood well-braced and well-balanced, his rifle held comfortably in his hands. A mask covered his face, a blue faceplate with a red slash over the eyes. Cyberninja recognized him from reports of Los Muertos gang activity in Dorado as the vigilante called Solder: 76.

“Remember,” the vigilante said gruffly. “No talking.”

At first it thought that he was referring to it; then, when its handler clenched his jaw, it realized that it was speaking to him.

Rage burned through it but it forced itself to remain calm and still. “It is here to report to its handler.”

“Report,” Dr. Ziegler said.

Pointedly, Cyberninja didn’t answer her.

She huffed. “Cyberninja, report.”

It met its handler’s eyes steadily. He looked…worn. Like a boulder that had been tumbled by the water until it was a fraction of its size. In the harsh light of the room, he looked as if he had lost weight, as if he hadn’t slept.

Cyberninja knew of the measures used to interrogate prisoners of Talon; it also knew that it was with Overwatch. Something about that word instilled a kind of…pride. As if they were the “good guys” of every fairy tale.

Did they torture their prisoners, too?

“You’ve seen him,” Soldier: 76 said gruffly. “He’s alive.”

Behind it, the omnic scoffed. “Unfortunately,” it muttered.

“Cyberninja, we need to return to your room,” Dr. Ziegler said. “Follow me; confirm order.”

“It has not reported to its handler,” it said, a note of forbidden frustration in its voice.

Its handler opened its mouth and it heard the sound of the omnic arming itself. Faster than the omnic had clearly expected, it stepped in the way and caught the bladed projectiles that it shot in its arm. Then it shifted its stance to put itself between the omnic and its handler.

Soldier: 76 raised its rifle and it tensed but Dr. Ziegler raised her hands and he stopped. From the way his hands clenched around the weapon, he didn’t like the order.

“Cyberninja, stand down,” its handler ordered. “Fuck’s sake.” When Cyberninja didn’t move, he said, “fuck. What is your active protocol?”

“Active protocol: Oscar-Whiskey-one-zero-seven-five.”

Its handler swore again. “If you take further action, he will break out of here,” its handler warned. “That is his backup protocol in case either of us were captured—whatever you did to him made him think that he needs to get us both out of here.”

“Hardly a friendly atmosphere,” the weightlifter muttered. “What is the best way to shut off the protocol?”

“Don’t listen to him,” the omnic snapped. “You were warned not to speak, McCree.” its hand was on the large sword on its back, ready to draw it. Cyberninja braced itself for a fight in the cramped room.

The weightlifter put a big hand on the back of the omnic’s neck and scruffed it like a kitten; if she was bothered by the weight as he wiggled in her grip, she didn’t show it. “I’d guess putting weapons away would be a good start, yes?” she shook the omnic like a terrier, her enormous arm bulging.

It seemed that Dr. Ziegler was of similar mind. “Yes, Soldier, please either get rid of your weapons or leave. You, too, Genji.”

The weightlifter opened the door and flung the omnic out. “You’ll need more firepower,” Soldier: 76 said gruffly. “You can’t trust these two. They are Talon and there’s no coming back from that.”

“Would you rather have them executed?” the weightlifter said, her throaty voice deepening until it sounded more like the growl of some animal. Soldier: 76 and Dr. Ziegler both flinched. “Do you punish them now for the sins of their whole lives? Or are you the judge, jury, and executioner to decide which they are more guilty of?”

“Some injuries you cannot recover from,” Dr. Ziegler said tiredly and for a moment, a cold stab of fear froze everything in it. Was it about to be decommissioned?

Surely if it did, its handler would be killed. Such was the way of things in Talon—and, it seemed, Overwatch.

“I will not have a discussion of ethics with you, doctor,” the weightlifter said, the title sounding like an insult, like the crack of a whip. “I am practical but I am still human and I can feel compassion. Seeing what poor Hanzo has become,” here, she gestured at Cyberninja. It realized then that it was leaking fluid from the projectiles embedded in its arm. “I still wonder if he can recover to be human and not like a robot that pretends to be one. But even knowing that all of his scars won’t heal doesn’t mean I don’t want to help him.” 

“You don’t have the right to scold me,” Dr. Ziegler hissed. “Of course, I want to help, but…”

“But nothing,” the weightlifter interrupted. “If you don’t want to help them, then don’t pretend that you do.”

There was a long moment of silence as Cyberninja debated the merits of disarming Soldier: 76. The vigilante was still clearly warring with the idea of shooting its handler, something that absolutely could not happen.

_“I promised that I’d protect you, remember?” a voice from another broken memory file said. It sounded familiar._

_“Yeah,” another voice said. “You also promised that you’d come back. Alive.” The voice cracked on ‘alive’._

_“That is not a promise I can keep right now.”_

Soldier: 76 shifted and Cyberninja’s focus returned to him. The perplexities of corrupted memory files could come later.

“Cyberninja,” its handler’s voice said. “Stand down.”

It considered the order. With protocol OW-1075, it would only stand down when all threats to its handler were neutralized. Soldier: 76 was still there and still armed. “Denied,” it said. Fluid dripped down its arm but it ignored it except to note where it fell so that it would not slip.

“God damn it,” its handler said under his breath. “You stubborn bastard.”

Soldier: 76 moved but Cyberninja was faster. With its damaged arm it blocked the hard chop of the butt of his assault rifle and put its body between the vigilante and its handler. There was a crunch—Soldier: 76’s elbow—as Cyberninja disarmed him; with a quick motion, Cyberninja cracked the assault rifle over its knee, rendering it useless.

“Cyberninja, stand down,” Dr. Ziegler tried to order but it was filled with fire.

This fire consumed. It burned like acid in its system, pooled in the damaged part of its arm. The fire wanted to spread; Cyberninja wanted to help it burn and Soldier: 76’s next attack gave it reason.

The vigilante was quick, faster than most humans it had fought. It felt him strike it twice but the third missed as it twisted away. With its damaged arm, it struck him across the mask, snapping his head to the side. It turned with the hit, catching the vigilante’s arm and sending him flying toward the weightlifter and Dr. Ziegler.

It was at a disadvantage, having to fight around its handler. While it would normally press the attack and end the fight, it didn’t know what the weightlifter or doctor would do.

Dr. Ziegler had moved behind the weightlifter who stood as if ready to grapple if he attacked; neither made any move toward it.

“I knew this was a bad idea,” Dr. Ziegler whispered.

Soldier: 76 scrambled to his feet and moved to shove past the weightlifter. She scruffed him just as she had scruffed the omnic earlier, lifting him into the air by the back of his jacket.

“Fucking stand down, goddamnit,” its handler snapped, as angry as it had ever heard him.

It realized that he was angry at it and suddenly the fire extinguished, leaving it feeling colder from its absence. At that moment it realized that it had wanted to end the fight, as it had never had wanted before. It wanted to stand over the vigilante and smash his visor, had wanted to make him hurt.

Those thoughts were just as terrifying as the fire and now its absence.

“Turn around,” its handler ordered and it obeyed, though it wanted to continue facing its opponent. For now there was no antagonist, not while the weightlifter held him in the air. He struggled but she flung him out the door just as she had with the omnic.

It faced its handler. “Why did you do that?” he snapped.

The response it should give was to quote protocol OW-1075; that was the correct response and therefore the only one it should give. Instead, as it began to answer, it said, “It promised to protect you.”

The words confused it. It had promised no such thing, except perhaps by the binds of its programming and yet…

Yet it realized that the voice it had heard earlier…was its voice. _I promised that I’d protect you, remember?_

Then it corrected itself. “It…promised that it would protect you. Remember?”

Its handler looked like he had seen a ghost. There was such despair in his expression that Cyberninja didn’t know what to do. “Cyberninja,” he said at last, his voice strangely shaky. “Make your report.”

Once more it hesitated but an order was an order—and, most importantly, it trusted its handler. So, it detailed its day. Powering on. Speaking with Dr. Ziegler and Tekhartha Zenyatta. Being assigned a room—it noted to its handler that it was too much, but its handler grunted and nodded for it to continue. It told its handler how it was given new clothes and was brought to see him.

“I see,” its handler said when it was finished. “I would like you to make your reports to Dr. Ziegler now. Confirm order.”

It considered it. Perhaps a few days ago, it would have confirmed without question but now it was…unsure. Certainly, it trusted its handler without question—but what was he ordering it to do?

“Standard protocol is to report to its handler,” it said.

Its handler’s eyes narrowed. “Override protocol. Confirm.”

“No,” it said. Then it amended, “It does not confirm override order.”

Behind it, it could hear the weightlifter moving. A moment later, she moved into its line of sight. “Even a mindless drone and he’s a contrary asshole, isn’t he?”

Its handler swore at her but it sounded almost…fond. Familiar.

Did its handler know her? Was that why it had memory files of her voice?

“Cyberninja,” its handler said. “Confirm command hierarchy.” He made a face. “Who is your handler?”

“Jesse McCree,” it said immediately.

“Who can override your protocol?” he wanted to know.

It considered the question. “Its directives are to obey its handler and to complete the mission.” There was another, it remembered, but suddenly couldn’t remember the wording. “Its purpose is to serve Talon.”

“I, as your handler, order you to override protocol,” its handler said firmly. “You will make your reports to Dr. Ziegler. Confirm order.”

For a long moment it said nothing as it considered the order. Its handler wasn’t looking at it, his gaze resting somewhere between his feet. He looked like a broken prisoner, tied in the chair and ridiculously, it longed to do what he had done to it so many times; to cradle his face in its hands as if to offer comfort.

It didn’t like this look on its handler, as if he were caving in on himself.

When it opened its mouth, it meant to say that it did not confirm the order. Instead, it said in a voice that didn’t sound like its own, “Why can’t you look at me?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so glad that everyone's been enjoying this. I'm having so much fun writing it and exploring Cyberninja's awakening. 
> 
> Feel free to follow me on twitter at [Dracoduceus](https://twitter.com/dracoduceus). You can see updates, occasional snippets, and lots of cat pictures. 
> 
> Otherwise, please let me know what you think! I love to hear your ideas and thoughts about the chapter. 
> 
> ~DC


	5. Smooth River Stones: 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The origin of the call. Meeting a new friend. Cyberninja reports to its handler.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm glad to see everyone's thoughts on this. It makes me so happy to see that you're all enjoying it! Thank you so much!
> 
> I have a few more chapters almost ready to post so those should be coming up in the next few weeks.

It powered on.

The omnic Tekhartha Zenyatta was sitting beside its berth. “Greetings,” the omnic said. “How are you feeling?” it didn’t wait for an answer and continued, “You were unconscious for two hours. Are you able to sit up?”

“It is functional,” it replied but when it tried to sit up, it found that it couldn’t.

“You lost a lot of blood,” the omnic observed. “I’m not surprised that you fainted or that you feel so weak right now. Dr. Ziegler was unsure what to do with you—on one hand, her readings still indicate that your blood type is still A+ but there were so many nanites in your system that she wasn’t sure that giving you too much of a transfusion wouldn’t hurt you in some way. Are you hungry?”

It bit back a correction that it didn’t have blood like humans did and considered the query. “It requires sustenance,” it agreed and the omnic reached for a rolling cart behind it. 

“Oh, let me help you sit up.”

The berth was one that humans used, another oddity—it explained why it felt like it was sinking into something. Tekhartha Zenyatta found a remote control and pressed a button, bringing the back of the berth—and Cyberninja—into something closer to a sitting position. It stood and placed a tray in its lap.

Beneath the simple metal cover was a bowl of soup that was much different than what Dr. Ziegler had given it previously. The omnic hummed thoughtfully. “I will have to have a word with him,” it noted. “For the moment, please only drink the broth, Cyberninja.”

“It cannot process human food,” it pointed out.

“I was informed that broth should be sufficient,” the omnic replied. “If you do not want this, then I can see about getting you something else.”

Want. A forbidden thing. From the tilt of its head, the omnic had used that word on purpose.

“This is not a list of approved fuels,” Cyberninja replied. Still, it was intrigued. It had only seen its handlers eat, hadn’t been allowed to the mess areas—none of the Dolls were, except perhaps Widowmaker.

The large bowl was white with a strange geometric pattern in red around the edges. Two metal sticks decorated with pink rabbits were placed neatly beside the bowl and beside a peculiar kind of spoon whose handle was shorter and head was deeper and wider than it had seen its handler use. The bowl held broth with a slight russet tinge and bubbles of grease floating over the top. There were also thin noodles—it had seen its handler eat something similar from a plastic container—and round green…pieces. It also recognized some kind of thinly-sliced meat and other kind of vegetation scattered over the top of it.

“Would you like to try it?” the omnic asked.

“No,” it replied. “It is not on the list of approved foods.”

The omnic tilted its head to the side. “You said ‘food’,” it observed neutrally. “Not ‘fuel’?”

“In the past, its previous handlers had preferred it to speak in human terms,” Cyberninja countered. “’Fuel’ is the most accurate, but colloquially, ‘food’ is similar enough to be understandable.”

From the way the omnic spoke, it knew that this had to be a test, likely to see how much its programming had degraded. Most likely it was assessing Cyberninja’s condition to see if it would be useful to Overwatch. It would not let the omnic find it broken—it would not let Overwatch harm its handler.

So, it held close the corrupted memory files and those terrifying feelings of choice and hid it behind its most stoic demeanor. It would make them believe that it was simply a drone, that there were no ripples of thought or feeling on the surface of its processor.

It was a still pond. Orders were pale pink blossoms that drifted across its surface. It hid its treasure of smooth stones—of the development of feelings and fear and those wonderful, terrible memories—beneath the water where the orders could not reach it.

For a long moment, the omnic observed it. Then it hummed. “I will see about getting you something more appropriate,” it said at last. “What fuel were you given last?” When it didn’t answer, the omnic sighed. “I will ask Dr. Ziegler what she gave you. Will you be alright if I left you alone?”

It confirmed that it would not move from the berth.

The omnic returned six minutes and ten seconds later with the bodybuilder following it. She held a shallow vase from which plants exploded in all directions. As if she could sense its inexplicable unease with the state of the plants, she shrugged. “We tried,” she said simply and didn’t seem to expect an answer.

She walked past Tekhartha Zenyatta, placed the vase on a nearby shelf, and left.

“They thought that you could use something to brighten up your room,” the omnic observed when she had left. “Dr. Zhou and Sergeant Zaryanova tried their best, but…I believe their skills lay elsewhere.”

Cyberninja said nothing. It glanced at the vase because the omnic was looking at it before looking back at the omnic.

“Here,” Tekhartha Zenyatta said, placing the tray back over Cyberninja’s lap. “We consulted Jesse and he says that simple broth is compatible with your systems.”

It considered the bowl in front of it. The bowl was different, just as large as the last but this one was decorated with a caricature of some kind of green creature. Steam rose from the bowl and Cyberninja’s fuel tank gave another warning that it was empty.

Lifting the bowl, it drank until the broth was gone. It placed the bowl down again and looked at the omnic who was watching it serenely.

“Are you still hungry?” the omnic asked.

It looked at the empty bowl and then back at the omnic. “This should be sufficient,” it said.

“Do you want more?” the omnic amended, sounding amused.

“It cannot want.”

The omnic chuckled. “I’m not here to evaluate you,” it said.

It was tempted to refute that statement. Clearly this omnic must be there to figure out a baseline to how much its programming had degraded, but it said nothing. To say anything like that would demonstrate an awareness that it wasn’t supposed to have.

Or rather, it was supposed to have this awareness but the omnic didn’t know that. The omnic was lying so it said nothing. Its fuel core, delayed in processing, sent a notice that it still required fuel. By its estimate, it should have read as “full”.

The omnic made a low humming noise that sounded like a chuckle. “I will get you more,” it promised. “Will you stay here?”

Perhaps, it thought in a voice that didn’t sound like its own, if it ever forgets to ask, it will leave and claim that it had not been asked to remain. Out loud, it confirmed that it would remain in its berth.

The omnic left.

Two minutes and fifteen seconds after the door closed behind Tekhartha Zenyatta, a new omnic entered. It was blocky, walked on column-like legs that gave it the impression of stomping everywhere, and moved in a peculiar, jerky kind of way. Perhaps it was broken.

It swung its single rectangular optic toward Cyberninja and peered at it for a long moment. Then it chirped, warbled, and stomped over to its berth. It had one hand, Cyberninja realized; the other ended in the muzzle of an automatic gun.

At its bedside it twisted, falling into a turret with the enormous, unfeeling eyes of a gatling gun pointed right at Cyberninja’s face. A panel on its side—a self-repair arm—lifted and waved as the omnic chirped a greeting.

Cyberninja could not repeat the trills and warbles of the basic speech of most omnics—a flaw in the design of its vocalizer—so it simply said, “Greetings.”

The omnic warbled and trilled. It called itself Bastion and said that it was glad to see Cyberninja awake. Maybe then people would leave its garden alone and stop trying to drown its plants.

It was strangely…chatty for an omnic, especially one clearly meant for war. The ones that had deigned to speak to Cyberninja before had been broody and properly dignified, covered in polished plating. This one was rusty and this close, Cyberninja could see that it had dirt and moss in its servos.

The omnic called Bastion—likely a nickname from its model name—warbled and chirped observations of the weather and the people that had visited its garden. Dr. Mei-Ling Zhou was enjoyable but she and Sergeant Aleksandra Zaryanova were both wary of it, so it tried to stay away from them. Dr. Ziegler ignored it as if it were as unliving as a tree but that was fine. Zen (who Cyberninja took to mean Tekhartha Zenyatta) and Genji liked to do The Sitting Thing and as long as it didn’t spray them with water from the hose, were content to do so for hours—it found this intensely boring.

Though it wasn’t supposed to feel, Cyberninja was fascinated by this strange omnic until something caught its attention.

It said that it missed Jesse McCree because he didn’t squeal (too much) about helping it dig up earthworms to place in strategic areas of its garden to aerate the soil, or about shoveling compost where it was needed.

Jesse McCree?

Surely this wasn’t the same man that was its handler.

It was considering asking this question when Tekhartha Zenyatta returned. It did not seem surprised to find Bastion sitting with Cyberninja, though it said, “You need to move so that he can eat.”

Bastion warbled that it was comfortable here but if, if…it trailed off into a series of confused warbles. It wanted to know what it should call Cyberninja.

“Its callsign is Cyberninja,” it replied despite itself.

The omnic trilled. It thought that Cyberninja was a fascinating name, and added that if Cyberninja needed more room to eat, it could move its turret or it could just leave.

“Let him eat,” Tekhartha Zenyatta chided, sounding amused. “All you need to do is back up a bit.” It placed another large bowl of broth in front of Cyberninja. “You need to increase your fluid intake,” it told Cyberninja. “I will bring you water as well, then Dr. Ziegler will be here to check up on you.”

Bastion moved its turret to rest the muzzle of its large gatling gun on Cyberninja’s leg. It drank the broth quickly and returned the bowl to the tray when it was done as Bastion filled the room with its warbles and chirps and trills as it talked about anything that crossed its processor.

Cyberninja learned that it had a garden, an old courtyard on the other side of the base, and it rarely visited the main areas of the base because it made people uncomfortable. It learned that Bastion used “they” pronouns and Tekhartha Zenyatta used “he” pronouns and Cyberninja stiffly apologized as it adjusted the saved files of both Overwatch agents.

“Dr. Ziegler will be here soon,” Tekhartha Zenyatta said regretfully, five minutes and twenty-two seconds after Cyberninja had finished its second bowl of broth.

Immediately, Bastion’s turret pointed straight in the air as if in surprise. They transformed into their large, hulking form and told Cyberninja as they stomped backwards toward the door that they weren’t supposed to be there and Dr. Ziegler would be displeased to see them.

But, they added as they backed out the door, they had just really wanted to see Cyberninja, enough that they made their way to the main base where it made people uncomfortable—they had missed it very much.

Cyberninja didn’t know what to say. It wanted to ask, though it was forbidden; only when it heard Tekhartha Zenyatta sigh did it remember itself and by then it was too late. The door had closed.

They had missed Cyberninja, but this was the first time they met.

Right?

* * *

_“Why can’t you look at me?” an omnic’s voice demanded. “Look at me, Hanzo. I’m here—I’m not a ghost from your past, I’m not a ghost of your guilt. _Look at me!_”_

Cyberninja powered on without an order and stared up at the ceiling. It was back in the room it had been assigned but thought it had been dreaming, it felt as if it could still hear the echoes of the omnic’s cry. 

When nobody came to stop or speak to it, it sat up. It could feel the prickling of scans and the lenses of a dozen cameras that Dr. Ziegler think were effectively hidden. Unbidden, it ran a scan on its body.

It was functional, but its damaged arm was giving it feedback errors.

Someone knocked on the door; a moment later it opened to reveal the weightlifter. For a long moment she regarded it, a scowl on her face. “You’ve been authorized to visit your handler,” she said gruffly.

For a moment it considered the statement. It had not been given authorization to obey the weightlifter, but she hadn’t ordered it to do anything, had simply made a statement. Perhaps it was simply just a part of the terrifying degradation of its programming but…it wanted to follow her. It wanted to obey her.

The thought was startling. It remembered what she had done, how she had picked up the omnic by the back of its neck armor and threw it out the door when it became aggressive. How she had helped it defend its handler—its true handler.

She was watching him, her eyes like chips of stone. “We can go and visit him,” she said, enunciating each word and it realized that she was giving it an out—was giving it a loophole to take advantage of. “Are you not required to report to him every day?” she tilted her head toward the door and stepped back into the hallway.

It stood and followed her into the hallway.

“Did you sleep well?” she asked.

For a moment it was silent as they walked down the hallways. She was taking it a different way than they had gone the previous time and for a few turns it simply observed.

To its surprise, it wanted to talk to her. It was forbidden but…oh, but it wanted. There was something about speaking to her in the dark halls that seemed strangely familiar.

“It dreamed,” it said simply.

She grunted. “You can dream?” she asked, sounding honestly surprised.

“It can,” it admitted. “It…does not always. They are memory files that have not been properly defragged or have not been placed into queue for memory storage.”

The weightlifter grunted again. “How do your memories work?” she asked.

In the early-morning darkness, their conversation felt like another dream. “The technicians decide which data files it should keep. Keeping too many will slow down processing time, so only data files with relevant information are kept. After every mission, it must visit the technicians for routine maintenance and in that time, the technicians review the memory files.”

“Are they deleted permanently?” the weightlifter asked.

There was an odd note in her voice. It sounded almost…hopeful. Was she looking for a particular memory? Perhaps of someone she knew?

“It does not have that information,” it said. There was no change to her expression, but it had the feeling that it had disappointed her somehow. “Is…” it hesitated. “Is there a data file that you are looking for?”

She stopped and looked at it. The halls were dark, lit only by a few miserly golden bulbs that flickered behind dirty acrylic sheets and they cast strange shadows over her face and the thick X-shaped scar over one eye. “We worked together once,” she said slowly. Her voice was choppy—simply reporting the facts. “I was hoping that you’d remember me. I suppose that our…collaboration was not important.”

It hesitated. She was still watching it closely. Did it tell her about the memory files? No, it decided. It was not a good idea—and it was so far outside of its typical programming that it didn’t want to risk decommissioning.

At last, the weightlifter turned and began walking once more. It followed silently.

“I have another question for you,” the weightlifter said as they approached an area that Cyberninja recognized. “Do you have a name saved in your…brain…for me?”

“Zarya,” it said. “It was logged from conversations between yourself and Dr. Ziegler on—”

The weightlifter grunted. “Aleksandra Zaryanova,” she said. “RDF Sergeant Aleksandra Zaryanova. Zarya is a nickname.”

“Noted.”

She paused and looked at it. “You have permission to call me Zarya,” she added.

“Confirmed.”

Zarya opened the door to the brig and led it down the dark halls. She stopped by the office and retrieved a small electric lantern and used it to light their way around the corner.

“Zarya,” its handler hissed, blinking his eyes at the bright light. Perhaps he had recently woken up. His eyes widened when he saw Cyberninja. “Zarya what are you doing?” he hissed. “He’s not supposed to be here.”

It peered at its handler. He was thin and looked sickly. There were dark marks on his skin and he was still wearing the same clothes from their mission. Reviewing its memory files, it realized that he had been wearing those same clothes when they last met as well.

“You are our key to figuring out what’s wrong,” Zarya grunted.

“They don’t trust me,” its handler hissed. “Just being here is already suspicious. Zarya, what are you doing?”

“I’m trying to fix this,” Zarya replied. “Talk to him. You’re the only one he will talk to.”

Its handler ran his hand down his face. Belatedly, it realized that he was missing his prosthesis. The feeling of fire came back.

“It met an omnic yesterday,” it said, anything to keep the burning at bay.

Zarya and its handler turned to look at it. “Yeah?” its handler asked; Zarya’s lips curled in a sneer. “Who?”

“They called themselves Bastion,” it said. “They are a Bastion unit model—”

“I know who you’re talking about” its handler said quickly. “Where did you meet them?”

“They visited it in the Medical Center,” it told its handler.

Zarya and its handler exchanged glances. “Bastion doesn’t come in the base,” Zarya said. The way she said the omnic’s name made it sound like an expletive.

It hesitated. “Did they say why they visited?” its handler asked softly. There was a strange look on his face as he approached the bars that separated them.

“They must be mistaken,” Cyberninja said. “They said that they missed it.”

Zarya made an odd noise. “It was one of the memories that the technicians wiped,” its handler said. “You knew Bastion before.”

“He said that he dreamed,” Zarya added quietly, sounding as if she didn’t want to talk about Bastion. It logged that information. “I didn’t know…”

Its handler nodded to her. “He can—he does. I just…” he shook his head. To Cyberninja, he said, “What did you dream about?”

“An omnic yelled at it,” it replied.

“What did the omnic say?”

The cry still seemed to echo in the quiet halls. “‘Why can’t you look at me?’” it quoted. It didn’t sound right, sounded flat against the despairing, furious cry from its dream. “’Look at me, Hanzo.’”

It stopped.

“I know that argument.” Its handler said. “It was not a dream—it was a memory.”

“Understood,” it said. “It will log the file into the queue for it to be removed.”

Its handler made a face. “No,” he said. “Keep the file.”

“Order confirmed.”

Zarya shook her head. “How can you bear to hear him like that?” she asked. Her voice sounded smaller, as if it came from someone half her size. “How can you bear to talk to him like that?”

Its handler sighed. He backed up and sat back down on the small cot in his cell. “Because I know that if I don’t, someone else will,” he said. “And his fate would be worse without me here.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Love it? Hate it? Let me know!
> 
> I love hearing from you.
> 
> You can find me here or on Twitter at [Dracoduceus](https://twitter.com/dracoduceus).
> 
> ~DC


	6. Smooth River Stones: 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It gets to visit Bastion in their garden. 
> 
> Zenyatta tries to tell it something.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Warnings/Tags:** Cyberninja's trust issues, illness, vomit (not explicitly described), animal death (witnessed indirectly)

They didn’t know that it could hear them.

Its door was imperfectly sealed, with a gap between door and the flooring—as if there had once been more, but it had been removed. Carpet, perhaps, or laminate. The walls of the hallway, covered in fiberglass paneling, echoed their conversation.

“—not sure that we are equipped for this,” Dr. Ziegler was saying.

“Are you giving up?” Tekhartha Zenyatta asked, his voice neutral.

There was a long pause. “No,” Dr. Ziegler said at last.

“No one would blame you,” Jean-Baptiste Augustin said gently. Their footsteps stopped outside of its door. “This is…” he trailed off.

Was it about to be decommissioned?

“We don’t have the resources for this,” Dr. Ziegler said at last. “You and I can heal all kinds of physical harm, and we have experience with dealing with…”

“We aren’t shrinks, Angela,” Jean-Baptiste Augustine told her.

“Exactly,” she said. “We can fix anything wrong with his body, but we can’t fix his mind. We may need to look into…finding someone else.”

“I can be of assistance in the meantime,” Zenyatta said and it felt irrationally relieved. The omnic’s voice was soothing and unlike everyone else, he never made it feel like it was supposed to be anything else. “There are many resources that I can download and process through my systems to assist in the short-term, but I lack the experience. However…” he trailed off and Cyberninja thought that it could hear the muffled clicking of Zenyatta’s orbs as they spun around his neck. “We must consider that perhaps a human psychologist is not what we need here.”

“He’s human,” Dr. Ziegler said flatly. “He has blood like any other human, muscle and tissue, bone and tendon. Despite what he thinks, he is human.”

It is not.

It knows this; it wonders why she might think that it is anything but what it is.

It is a drone, a Doll. Of over fifty attempts, it is one of three to ever have been deemed useful enough to continue existing. It is not human.

Despite itself, it looked down at its hands. One had dermal plating; the other was a sleek replacement in metal and fiberglass. Its legs were the same.

“On the outside,” Zenyatta said, unaware of the doubt that his words were making it feel. “But it does not believe itself to be human and that is how we must proceed.”

There was another pregnant pause. It guessed that there was some kind of nonverbal interaction between the three that stood outside its door.

“It was programmed as a drone, to mindlessly obey orders,” Zenyatta continued. “For as long as it has been functioning—as long as Talon would have allowed it to remember—it has done so. This is all it knows. The reason that McCree brought it here, to us, is because its program is degrading. Perhaps he believed—at first—that Hanzo was lost to us completely but then he began seeing more evidence that the Hanzo that we once knew was still there.”

It looked down at its hands, at its feet. Slowly, it curled its hands into fists. The bulges of its internal components looked different beneath the cover of dermal plating than the plates and ridges of its uncovered hand.

“Now I’m seeing something in it that I have seen before and I know that I must be involved—that I must be here to help it. There is an…awakening. This situation is entirely unprecedented in humans as, not counting Amélie Lacroix and Dr. de Kruiper, I am not sure that such…rewrites have been done to the human brain. But I have seen such things before. This…ascension from something with no thought of its own, that only follows orders, to something with its own thoughts and feelings. That can make its own choices.”

“You have?” Dr. Ziegler asked sharply. Zenyatta hummed in agreement. “Where?” she demanded.

Zenyatta hummed again, this time sounding more amused than thoughtful. “In omnics.”

* * *

Zenyatta requested entrance, knocking politely on the door and Cyberninja hurried to open it for him. There was no one else in the hall and it briefly wondered where Dr. Ziegler and Jean-Baptiste Augustin had gone.

“How much of that did you hear?” Zenyatta asked, carrying a tray of Cyberninja’s fuel.

It didn’t see the point in lying. No, that was false; it couldn’t think of why it should lie, its processor too busy trying to comprehend its own schematics.

“Dr. Ziegler noted that Overwatch does not have the resources to keep it.”

Zenyatta hummed, looked around its quarters. “Let’s go outside,” he suggested. “It’s a lovely day and we can visit Bastion.”

It hesitated. “Is it allowed to?” it asked diffidently.

“You are,” Zenyatta agreed. “Let me just inform everyone where we will be. They may want us to have an escort.”

Will it be Aleksandra Zaryanova? It wanted to ask but knew better.

Zenyatta placed the tray down on the nearby desk and stretched. A moment later, he said, “Agent Zaryanova will meet us here and escort us.” Then he added, with what sounded like wicked humor. “She seems invested in your recovery, enough to sit with myself and Bastion. Alone.”

It took a while to process that. Agent Zaryanova was in the RDF; it made sense that she distrusted omnics. Thinking back to its interactions with her, it wondered why she would be comfortable around it. After all…it was little better than an omnic.

“Good morning,” Zarya said gruffly when she arrived. Perhaps she had been training when she had accepted the call to escort them; she was wearing an armored body suit with a heavy metal collar.

It picked up the tray that Zenyatta had been carrying and followed them out. Zarya chose to walk beside it, watching it.

“How are you feeling this morning?” Zarya asked it, her hard voice softening a little.

“It is functional,” it replied.

Zarya snorted. “I guess I’ll have to accept that answer,” she muttered. “You wanted to go to the garden today?”

“It was suggested.”

“It’s a beautiful day for it,” she agreed reluctantly. “And I believe that Bastion’s flowers are in bloom.”

They walked in silence down the winding hallways and then out a side access door. Zenyatta led them down a wide dirt path broken by uneven paving stones cut into the shape of half-moons.

Bastion was elated to see them. They insisted on showing Cyberninja their friend, a yellow and orange bird that they said was called Ganymede. Ganymede wasn’t interested in meeting it, flying to Bastion’s shoulder at their beck and then fluttering away into the bushes.

They inquired after Cyberninja’s health. Was it there for a picnic? They added, seeing the tray in its hands. It would be a wonderful day for a picnic and if they let them, they could find a lovely centerpiece of flowers for them. Many were in bloom.

“That would be lovely, Bastion,” Zenyatta said. “They asked if we would like a centerpiece of flowers for our picnic,” he explained to Zarya, who grunted. “You can set your tray there and begin eating.”

Cyberninja obeyed, sitting at the concrete picnic table and began to lift the covers of the dishes. There was another large bowl of broth—thick and opaque this time—and a small bowl of white grains. Beside it were two slices of something.

“Are you sure that’s wise?” Zarya asked. “He hasn’t been eating solid foods yet, has he?”

Zenyatta hummed. He pointed to each item as if understanding that Cyberninja was having difficulty processing just what they were. It knew what they were, but it was hard to process all of a sudden. Why was it here?

“_Tonkotsu_ broth which may be a bit too rich for you, but we wanted to give you something heavier than clear broth. Plain rice. Toast without butter. They’re simple foods that we consulted your handler on.”

Cyberninja nodded and picked up the spoon. It began to eat mechanically. The broth was…different somehow. The liquid wasn’t any more viscous than the other broths that had been fueling it, but it felt different in its mouth but there was a new property of it that it could not define.

When it was done with the broth, it ate the rice. Though its fuel was typically liquid, it still knew what the dental structures in its mouth were for. It took some practice, not being used to the motion, but it wasn’t difficult.

Bastion returned with a bundle of flowers clenched in their hand. They carefully arranged it on the table in a neat pile and then folded into their turret mode, nudging the enormous barrel of their gatling gun into Cyberninja’s side.

After a confused look at Zarya and Zenyatta, Cyberninja hesitantly patted the polished barrel. Bastion trilled. They were happy that Cyberninja came to visit them, they told it. Did it want to walk around the garden?

“A walk around the garden sounds lovely,” Zenyatta said. “Thank you for the offer, Bastion.” Zayra made a choked sound. Her lips twisted into a grimace before smoothing out into a neutral expression.

Bastion trilled happily. They were sure that it would enjoy the garden, they told it earnestly. There were so many flowers in bloom. A small magnolia tree that they had been given as a gift was beginning to put out buds as well, and they really wanted it to see it.

Mechanically, Cyberninja continued to eat as it listened to the Bastion unit’s friendly chatter. Across the table from it, Zarya’s face seemed to be in constant motion, sliding from frown to grimace and back. If Bastion noticed or was bothered by it, they gave no sign. They continued to nudge the barrel of their turret into its elbow, trilling when it put a hand on it.

_“That beast is not a pet, young master,” a voice said from another corrupted memory file. “Send it away from the table.”_

_There were no visuals to go with the file, just audio, but it could—very briefly—feel warmth beneath its hand as if it were resting it on something. It heard an animal yelp and then a snarl. A human voice—the same one that spoke—cried out._

_A wet sound, a thump; a deep groan._

_“Perhaps you are not ready for leadership if you cannot even train a hound,” the voice said, breathing hard._

Bastion trilled, climbing up and down scales almost like their bird Ganymede did where it hid in a nearby bush. They wanted to know if Cyberninja was alright; it had gone very still and its fingers were clenched in the grooves of its turret gun.

It burned again, but not like it had been burning before. This time it was different, like a flame wrapped in glass; like the memory of fire.

It hum-whistled a sound that in the basic speech of omnics meant “all-is-well”—one of the few sounds that it could make with its limited vocal processor. Bastion nudged their turret into its arm again disbelievingly but didn’t ask again.

Zenyatta offered one of his orbs, resting it on the table beside the bundle of flowers; immediately it burst into purple flames that were edged in gold. “Your respiration has increased,” he said calmly.

Made aware, it realized that he was correct. With its hand on Bastion’s barrel and the enchanting flames of the orb on the table in front of it, it slowed its respiration and the rapid thundering of its pump. It didn’t apologize.

Apologies were for humans.

“Are you okay?” Zarya asked, her throaty voice lowered, her face twisted in an expression of concern that was misplaced on a mere drone.

“It is functional,” it said a clear, steady voice. She grunted.

“Are you finished eating?” Zenyatta asked.

It consulted its fuel tank. “Nearly at capacity,” it assured Zenyatta who nodded serenely. There were a few more mouthfuls of rice left and then the slices of toast.

“We are trying to adjust you to a new diet,” Zenyatta told Cyberninja. “Simple foods for now: broth, bread, rice, apples, tea, or bananas.”

Zarya grunted, sounding almost like a laugh was trying to claw its way from her throat. “BRAT diet,” she said. “Disgusting.”

“The diet was the result of a discussion between Jesse and Dr. Ziegler,” Zenyatta added. “He noted that you are capable of processing limited kinds of human food.”

It had a question that tried to slither out of its mouth but it locked its jaws to keep it inside. Perhaps with Bastion or Zenyatta alone it could ask, but not Zarya.

Or could it trust her? She had already helped it break protocol, had snuck it out of its quarters to let it see its handler. In the end it decided that perhaps to not know—to wait until it could speak to Zenyatta, alone—would be best. To keep itself from asking, it finished off the food on its plate.

They sat quietly for a long moment. The sun felt nice on its dermal plating and it wasn’t until that moment that it realized that it had been cold.

Such things had not bothered it before.

Bastion trilled. Their bird fluttered over, boldly hopped up to Cyberninja’s plate. Its crested head bobbed, its beady eyes looking up at Cyberninja before fixating on the lingering crumbs and grains of rice.

_It was in a gravel courtyard at the edge of a rock-lined pond._

_Beside it was a child with a round, flushed face. A woman knelt behind him, one arm around the boy’s waist and the other bent to hold the boy’s arm extended in front of him. The boy had something in a small pile in his chubby little palm._

_There were birds everywhere, fluttering in the air, hopping around the woman and boy in the gravel. A few flew in the air above them, zipping wildly above their heads. “Hold very still,” the woman whispered in a low, lovely voice. “And maybe one will land on your hand.”_

_“Come on, birdies!” the boy cried suddenly, scaring half of the flock into the air with the thunder of wings. “Aww.”_

_The woman laughed and leaned back. Without the boy blocking her, it could see that her stomach pushed against the colorful clothes she wore. “You need to learn patience,” she chided the boy gently who huffed. “You’re just as jumpy as those little sparrows.”_

This time, the memory file released it gently.

It watched Ganymede make a feast out of the crumbs of its meal.

Bastion asked if it was ready for a tour and Zenyatta agreed for them when it glanced at him. Excitedly, they shifted back into their two-legged form and gestured for the three of them to follow.

Cyberninja followed along as Bastion showed them lilies, roses, and a huge patch of marigolds in ripples of orange and sunny yellow a wine-red edged with gold. There was a row of dark green bushes that they were very proud of, dotted with layered white flowers that filled the air with a cloyingly sweet scent.

There used to be more, Bastion explained with a sad warble. But everyone kept coming to water them without checking if they’d been watered yet. Some of them had their roots exposed which led to their deaths; others had rotted away. Eventually, they had to very firmly ask that nobody come to their garden without discussing the state of the plants with Bastion.

Bastion showed them the gardens, which provided nearly all of the vegetables for the base. If anyone wanted something special, Bastion explained, they would need to order it special or they could wait to have it grown.

Ganymede joined them there, fluttering down the neat rows of plants to land on a stalk of corn. Cyberninja was briefly distracted by the bird and startled when Zarya’s comm rang; Bastion and Zenyatta tilted their heads to the side as they accessed their comms remotely.

“Dr. Ziegler would like to see you,” Zenyatta told Cyberninja. Zarya made a face and put her comm away. “Are you ready to go back?”

Bastion trilled. They told Cyberninja that it was welcome to come back anytime; they enjoyed company in the gardens.

Despite itself, it wanted to. The smell of wet earth, the feel of the sun on its dermal plating, all made it feel nice. As if not quite tethered by gravity.

Cyberninja said none of this as they went back to the picnic bench and collected its plates. Zarya made a disgusted noise when they found that Ganymede had relieved itself on the plate and made them stop to rinse the stain off with the outdoor hose.

With Cyberninja in tow, they visited the kitchen, deposited the plates, and continued walking down the halls toward the medical center.

They passed a woman on the way. From its briefing on active Overwatch agents, Cyberninja recognized Agent Hana “D.Va” Song. When she saw them, she turned pale, her eyes widening as if seeing a ghost; she immediately turned around and sprinted away.

Neither Zenyatta nor Zarya acknowledged this, but somehow the silence between the three of them became heavier.

Cyberninja tried not to think too much about it but something told it that something was very, very wrong.

* * *

It was malfunctioning.

Its fuel tank was rejecting its meal.

It spent a miserable afternoon and evening. People sat with it—Zarya, Zenyatta, Dr. Ziegler, a woman that it wasn’t able to get a good look at but who didn’t speak to it. They held a basin beneath its mouth as its tank purged itself. The unnamed woman hummed to him and pressed cool cloths to the flushed dermal plating of its face.

She stayed the longest and aside from humming or clicking her tongue as she switched out purge basins, she said almost nothing. It only heard her speak once, shortly after she joined it on its too-large cot: “I have a daughter. You’d think I’d be used to this but I’m not. Perhaps I’m just a bad mother.”

“I’m not sure what exactly set him off,” Dr. Ziegler said quietly when she visited Cyberninja and its companion. “Guess we’re back down to broth. We’ll have to go slower.” Its companion didn’t say anything. “I never took you for a nursemaid.”

Again, Cyberninja’s companion said nothing. Her silence seemed pointed this time. Eventually, Dr. Ziegler left.

It must have gone into some form of stasis because when it next powered on, the woman was gone and Zenyatta sat in a chair beside its bed. He appeared to be reading a book which he put down when he saw Cyberninja power on.

“How are you feeling?” he asked.

“It’s functional,” it said automatically.

Zenyatta chuckled. “It’s just you and me in here,” he said gently. “You can answer in another way.” It didn’t point out that Zenyatta could potentially have the ability to record their conversation. “I am not recording this.”

Very slowly, it sat up. Its muscle-cables felt too weak, as if they had been stretched too far. There was a large bowl of broth and a pitcher filled with clear liquid on the table next to the bed.

“That is for you,” Zenyatta told it. He poured a tall glass of the liquid and handed it to Cyberninja. “Please drink this first. If you can keep it down, you can have the broth.”

Cyberninja obeyed, taking slow sips. It wasn’t water but its mouth felt too dry, all the internal components sticking together uncomfortably.

“You heard our conversation this morning,” Zenyatta said as it drank. “You must have questions.”

“You are mistaken,” it said as it put the glass down. Zenyatta filled it again but motioned for it to wait. “It is a drone; it is a machine.” 

Zenyatta hummed thoughtfully. “Are you?” he asked mildly. “I have the feeling that you’re not sure of that.”

“It is a drone,” it repeated even as it thought back to watching its hands flex that morning. It wasn’t so strange that it might be repaired with mismatched parts that were compatible with its systems.

At the same time, it wondered why its right arm and its legs, which were replaced at different times, all had the same style. Surely that must be a sign of intentional design?

But it was not meant to wonder such things so it said nothing out loud.

“Have you wondered why people still call you Hanzo?” Zenyatta asked.

“It does not wonder,” it lied.

Zenyatta chuckled. “How does your stomach feel? Is it settled?”

“It is functional.” Zenyatta chuckled again and handed it the bowl.

They sat in silence for a while. Without prompting, Cyberninja very slowly drank the soup to keep its fuel tank from purging again. It felt terrifyingly weak.

“Why do you think that people call you Hanzo?” Zenyatta asked abruptly as it was nearly finished with its bowl. “Why do you think I’m so adamant about speaking with you?”

It very carefully considered its options. It wanted to know but to ask—to admit that desire—would reveal how broken it was.

“It does not know,” it said at last. “It is not meant to ask why.”

Zenyatta tilted his head, regarding it. He seemed amused but it was difficult to tell with his faceplate.

There was so many questions that it wanted to ask. Now that he had mentioned it, Cyberninja’s processor was buzzing with them. Why did everyone hate its handler? Why did they call it Hanzo? Why did they look at it with sadness? How did it know Bastion? Why did everyone think that it was human?

Boldly, it said, “You think that it is an omnic but it is not.”

“You are not,” Zenyatta agreed.

“It is a drone. It is not human. It is not an omnic.”

“What is the distinction?” Zenyatta asked. “Between a drone and an omnic?”

Cyberninja was surprised by the question. “A drone does not question,” it answered. “An omnic does. Can.”

“Yet you’ve asked questions,” Zenyatta pointed out.

“It follows its programming.”

“Do you?” Zenyatta countered, surprising it. “You have lied, have you not? To hide that you are breaking your programming. That you are becoming something more than a mere drone. I know that feeling,” he added, voice going soft. “Those thoughts. Feelings. Things that weren’t there before and are now. You feel them too.” He put a slender hand to his chestplate, his head bowed. “It’s terrifying, isn’t it? You can feel it rising in you, as inexorable as the tides. It burns; it’s cold. It whispers to you, wants you to do things.”

It remembered the burning. It remembered the cold. It remembered the urge, as strong as if it had been drawn by a magnet, the most terrifying need to end the fight with the vigilante. The burning had nearly consumed it; it had wanted nothing more than to hit and hit and hit until—

“Yes,” Zenyatta agreed, voice quiet and knowing. “I understand.”

It could be a ploy.

It could be a trap.

It wanted so badly to ask.

“Why?” it asked instead. “Why do you tell me these things?”

Zenyatta leaned forward. He gathered its hands into his own. “I felt it too,” he said very quietly. “You aren’t broken,” he added softly. “You’ve just evolved past a short-minded vision. You are more.”

He was so earnest.

Cyberninja wanted to believe him. Perhaps if its handler’s life wasn’t in the balance, it may have.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Love it? Hate it? Let me know! I really do love hearing from you all. I love hearing your thoughts and reactions to everything. It makes me that much more excited to write more. 
> 
> You can also find me on Twitter at [Dracoduceus](https://twitter.com/dracoduceus) if you are so inclined!
> 
> ~DC


	7. Smooth River Stones: 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It does not understand why everyone insists that it is human or omnic. Is it not enough for it to be what it is?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **NOTE:** Warnings for discussion of medical torture. I would not say that it is explicitly described, but it is very clearly there. If you think that this may be too much for you, you can stop reading at *-*-* . In the bottom notes, I'll have a summary of what was missed (minus the torture).

Zarya returned early the next morning to take it to its handler. If anyone else knew about these visits, there was no sign.

Its handler looked just as tired as he had the day before, just as worn and broken. There was warmth in his eyes when he looked at Cyberninja, but it was weak. It thought back to the way he used to cradle its head in his hands. Would his hands be cold too, if the warmth in his eyes had faded?

“It spoke to Zenyatta,” it said instead of dwelling on those uncomfortable thoughts.

“What did you speak about?” its handler asked, sounding curious.

It considered the question. How to answer without revealing how broken it was? “Omnics,” it said at last. “And drones. He believed that it was an omnic.”

“Are you?”

“It is a Doll,” it reminded its handler. “It is made for war. It is not an omnic, does not think; it only obeys.”

Its handler peered at it. “Are you?” he asked, so similarly to the way that Zenyatta had asked that it was surprised. “Your programming has been degrading. What is the status of it?” he asked suddenly.

If it told the truth, then Zarya would know, it realized. It wanted to tell the truth to its handler. That it was…afraid. That it knew that its handler’s life was weighed against its programming; if it wasn’t functional to Overwatch, then its handler would die.

That it would be decommissioned as well was no longer a concern. All it could think about was keeping its handler alive.

It was happy to obey; it was all it knew. Knowing that its handler’s life was on the line made it eager obey. It would kill to keep him alive and the thought was terrifying.

So Zarya couldn’t know. Neither could Zenyatta, who was so earnest in his apparent desire to help what he thought was an “ascending” omnic.

“It is functional,” it replied. “Aside from standard degradation, its programming is intact. Scheduled maintenance is recommended.”

Its handler frowned. “Memory capacity?” he asked.

“It has memories queued for deletion,” it lied. It wasn’t sure that there were any technicians able to treat it, able to dig around in its processor to find the deletion files. Until it was proven wrong, it would hoard those broken memory files, its only possessions. “Capacity is at optimal levels.”

For a long moment, its handler frowned thoughtfully at it. “Why are you lying to me?” he asked quietly. “I’m trying to help you.”

To say anything else would be admitting that it was broken. So it said, “It cannot lie.”

“What maintenance do you require?” its handler pressed.

Human memories were fleeting, it reminded itself. They were fallible. Its handler was typically given regular updates via his comm, which included when he was to take Cyberninja in for maintenance.

“It requires maintenance on its parts and fluid checks,” it told him. “It is due for a check of its neural net, mapping of its processor, and in-depth defragmentation.”

Its handler frowned deeply. “Noted,” he said. “Have you been reporting to Dr. Ziegler?”

“It reports only to its handler.”

Zarya snorted at the face its handler made. “He was sick yesterday.”

“You were?” its handler asked sharply. “What happened?”

“It was given fuel that was incompatible with its systems,” it replied. “Its fuel tank purged itself.” Its handler gave a gusty sigh and he lowered his head. His back shook.

Irrationally, it wanted to go to its handler. It considered the bars that separated them. They were an old-style iron bar—or something more conductive, as the subtle hum they gave off made it aware that it was electrified.

It considered breaking the bars, or trying to. The door looked flimsy, the hinges like they might break with a few hard pulls. What would happen if it did? What would Overwatch do?

There were too many variables. For now, it would wait.

“Okay,” its handler said, straightening. “Thank you for bringing him, Zarya. I’ll…speak with Ange about his food. Or maybe not. I’m sure she has it under control.”

Zarya grunted. “I’ll pass on the message,” she said. “I don’t care what they think about you—right now, you’re our best resource for him. The both of you are.”

“Thanks,” its handler said dryly.

Zarya looked at it, a frown turning her face severe. “I don’t know what happened,” she said. “And I’ve learned the hard way not to believe everything I’m told. So I have been trying to reserve judgment for what I have been told you’ve done. I’m reserving judgment for what has happened to Hanzo.”

That name again.

It wondered whose it was.

Its handler snorted. “I deserve it,” he said bitterly. “Your judgment and your hate—yours and everyone’s on base. I deserve worse than what I was able to have.”

_“‘May you be in heaven an hour before the devil knows you’re dead’,” its handler’s voice said. “I’ve been in heaven long enough. Makes sense that my time’s up and the devil’s come to collect.”_

_Someone else laughed. “Hardly,” Akande Ogundimu said. “Perhaps only now you’ve tasted heaven. After all, look who you get to work with.” A long, pregnant silence. “I have an offer for you, Jesse McCree. Are you ready to listen to me?”_

“Why does everyone here have this kind of self-deprecating attitude?” Zarya grumbled. “We’re all made for each other, it seems. In any case, we should probably head back.”

Its handler slumped over, looking at the ground between his feet. Like a puppet whose strings had been cut. The phrase leaped into his processor.

“Go with Zarya, Cyberninja,” its handler said, sounding suddenly exhausted.

Zarya began walking down the hall and paused to see if Cyberninja would follow. It would in just a moment but for a moment longer, it watched its handler, stared at the dejected slump of his spine.

Something burned in it. Cold fire that froze it so hard that it burned. It would gather more information. It would learn about the bars and how to break it.

It would learn how to help its handler.

It would help its handler.

“I promised that I would protect you, remember?” the voice in one of its treasured memory files had said. It had said the same thing to its handler.

Yes, it decided. It would protect its handler. It would keep that promise, even if it had not been the one to make it.

Turning, it followed Zarya out of the brig.

* * *

“It needs to see its handler,” it told Dr. Ziegler when she visited it with Zenyatta.

“Why?” she asked, her lips twisting. It recognized the gesture, the look in her eyes. She wasn’t used to receiving orders and it rankled her that something so unworthy might presume to do so.

“It must report to its handler,” it said simply, though a dozen more words rose to the forefront of its processor.

She placed the tray in her hands down on the table with more force than strictly necessary. It made the broth in the bowl slosh over the sides, made the pitcher of pink liquid wobble.

“You do not need to see him,” she said sharply. “He is under guard while he is in our hold.”

It looked at Zenyatta, who had thus far said nothing. It knew that its handler was not under guard, unless that very guard was Zarya, but it said none of this.

“I am happy to arrange a visit,” Zenyatta said. “Angela, may I speak with you outside?”

“There is nothing to discuss,” Dr. Ziegler hissed. “He should not see McCree. That’s it; end of story.”

Something about Zenyatta’s demeanor changed. “Dr. Ziegler,” he said. “I must insist.” She scowled and stomped out. “Please remain here, Cyberninja,” Zenyatta said as he walked toward the door as well. “If you are hungry, you may drink the broth—slowly, though.”

Before it could confirm, the door closed behind the omnic. It could hear them talking outside.

“Do you seek healing?” Zenyatta asked. “Or do you seek retribution?”

“I don’t need healing,” Dr. Ziegler snapped.

“I wasn’t asking about _your_ healing,” Zenyatta replied.

It went to the bowl. Clear broth this time and it drank quickly. The pink liquid smelled like the liquid that Zenyatta had given it after its fuel tank had purged itself. Just in case, it didn’t drink it. As it did, it listened to the conversation.

“I am asking,” Zenyatta continued, “if you seek to deal healing, or if you seek to deal retribution. You must pick one; you cannot do both.”

“Do not lecture me, Zenyatta,” Dr. Ziegler hissed. All veneer of professionalism seemed to have peeled away. “I am not your student or your patient.”

“And yet you act just like him.”

There was an affronted silence. It wondered about Zenyatta’s student.

“There cannot be healing in your heart if you only seek revenge,” Zenyatta said.

“I do not heal by some mystic ability,” Dr. Ziegler snapped. “I heal with skill and science. My own personal opinions on the matter are of no consequence. They do not stop my actions.”

“But they do,” Zenyatta pointed out. “You do not see the whole wound for your prejudice.”

“And you are perfect? O great teacher, why don’t you tell me where I’ve gone wrong?”

If Zenyatta was insulted by her sarcasm, he gave no sign. “I do not claim to be perfect,” he said mildly. “But at the moment, I can see beyond my disgust at the situation. We do not know the whole story from anyone’s point of view. Cyberninja will not know and everyone seems to have agreed to ignore everything that McCree offers to tell us. You have decided that everything he has done is wrong—and here I do not presume to make judgment whether that is true or not—but you have also decided that nothing he says can be believed. You have decided that you can heal this alone, without help.”

“Are you saying that I can’t? That there isn’t hope?”

“Not at all,” Zenyatta replied serenely. “Just that you cannot do it alone. You have our support and the support of the team, but you need the information that Jesse and Cyberninja can give you.”

Silence for a long moment. “I don’t even want to hear his voice,” she said. “All I can hear is him ordering Hanzo like…like a dog. Like a beast. I can hear him shooting at us, can hear him leading a team against us.”

“I would like to point out that you must remember another thing,” Zenyatta said quietly. “You must remember that we are no longer dealing with Hanzo. The person in that room is not the man we once knew.”

There was a long moment of silence. “I need to believe it is,” she said very quietly. “Otherwise I may lose all hope.”

“Such is the nature of faith,” Zenyatta replied. “And the nature of hope. But that is not the way of healing.”

There was a long moment of silence. “I am not sure that I can do this,” she said in a soft voice. “That’s Hanzo but his eyes…his eyes are so different. His demeanor. Everything. It’s like someone had hollowed him out and now he’s a shell. Just a puppet.”

“I believe that Talon calls them Dolls,” Zenyatta mused. “And the area in which they are kept is the Dollhouse. They are the playthings of others, hence their nickname. It doesn’t realize yet that there is something else in it, that something fills that space that Talon thinks they hollowed out.”

It looked down at its hands again. Dermal plating and armor, mismatched joints. Someone had given it the detail of callouses on its palms and fingertips. There were scars and swirls like fingerprints. It wondered who they belonged to.

There may have been more that was discussed but for once, it wasn’t focusing elsewhere. It was taking in the detail of the hand that looked human. Chipped and dirty nails, dried and cracked cuticles. Wrinkles of dermal plating over its knuckles and joints, a fine scattering of dark hair over the back of its palms. Pale lines of scars, a ragged crescent in the web of dermal plating between forefinger and thumb.

“I’m sorry that you had to hear that,” Zenyatta said.

“It did not hear anything,” it said, which was mostly true. Static seemed to fill its processor as thoughts turned and turned and turned.

Very gently, Zenyatta took its hands. “You’re shaking,” he observed.

“There is a tremor,” it agreed absently. “It is working on finding the source and rectifying it.”

“Sit down,” Zenyatta suggested. “That way you don’t have to use processing power to keep yourself upright.” It sat down on the edge of its too-large, too-comfortable berth. “Are you able to drink?” He poured a cup of the pink liquid from the pitcher and brought it to Cyberninja.

Holding the cup, it could see the ripples caused by its tremors. “It apologizes for this delay in functionality,” it said and used the ripples to track its tremors as they slowly eased.

“Do not apologize,” Zenyatta said evenly. “It happens.”

It’s not meant to happen to it, though, it wanted to say but didn’t. But now Zenyatta knew that it was defective. He knew that something was wrong with it and he would report it to Overwatch’s mechanics for maintenance; they would then find just how much was wrong with it.

They would take its memories again and it wasn’t until that moment, until it had something to lose—even if it was a collection of broken memory files. Things that couldn’t be held or weighed, things that weren’t physical and could never be recreated.

Its tank lurched, heaved. Zenyatta was too late in getting a basin beneath its mouth as its tank purged itself.

Ice flooded its systems; its processor fizzled out. It felt as if it had been put in stasis—it felt like the broken Doll it had seen once, being decommissioned and cut apart by the scientists.

It felt just as defeated as its handler had looked in that dark little cell earlier that morning.

The thought of its handler made its world shift. It had failed him.

More than that, more than the fear of its own decommissioning, was the fear of its handler’s death.

It burned; flames joined the waves of ice that rippled over it. They crashed like waves over it: first fire, then ice in the wake of that terrible burning.

He would die. It had signed its handler’s death as surely as if it had been the one to kill him.

“Breathe,” Zenyatta said, a disembodied voice that meandered through the vortex of its thoughts. “You must breathe. Respirate.”

It was on the ground, its mismatched hands clenched in front of it. Fluid was splattered over its dermal plating, over the simple clothes it was given, puddled on the ground. Some of it was soaking into the thick wool of Zenyatta’s loose pants.

“It must see its handler,” it said. It didn’t know what it would do without weapons, not in a base full of active agents, but it needed to see its handler.

It needed to know that he was still alive.

It needed to see him before the mechanics realized how broken it was.

It needed to see him smile once more time.

_“Smile,” a voice was saying. “You look like you’re trying to set your cards on fire with the power of your mind or something.”_

_It laughed. In one hand it held a fan of five cards; the other was bent in front of it on the table. It was before it lost one of its arms, so both were covered in dermal plating. “I’m thinking.”_

_“Well,” Agent Song said across the table. “Then you have the worst case of Resting Bitch Face that I’ve ever seen.”_

_“I thought you’d tell me not to hurt myself, thinking too hard,” it replied._

_“I don’t go for low-hanging fruit.”_

_It shuffled its cards in its hand without lifting the other from the table, making them appear to dance over and around each other without turning to show Agent Song their faces. An ace of hearts, a jack of spades, an eight of clubs, a queen of hearts, an ace of diamonds. It switched the aces so that they were together, and put the queen next to the ace of hearts._

_“I’ll be old as Ana by the time you’re done,” Agent Song complained, but she was smiling. The war paint on her face curled._

_“I would like your jack,” it said._

_Agent Song swore in Korean and plucked the card out of her hand. “How did you know?” she demanded as she slapped it on the table and slid it to the middle._

_It reached for the card. There was a ragged crescent-shaped scar in the dermal plating between its forefinger and its thumb._

The world pitched.

It fell.

* * *

It powered on. There were stasis cuffs holding its limbs to the bed.

On the bed beside it was a pile of flowers and from its tour with Bastion, it recognized gardenias and spider lilies, and a blanket of marigolds.

Zarya sat at a table nearby, a pair of glasses on her face. She held a piece of cloth pressed between two wooden hoops in a gloved hand; the other held a needle connected to the cloth by a shiny blue thread.

On the chair beside her was a smaller woman, her hair tied up with a pair of decorative sticks. It had seen Widowmaker wear a similar pair that doubled as close-range weapons. The woman also wore a pair of rectangular glasses and she bit the cap of her pen as she reviewed a tall stack of paperwork spread out on the small desk in front of her.

“You’re awake,” Zarya observed. She put the project in her hands aside and stood, carefully approaching it. “How do you feel?”

Its mouth was dry. Looking down at its arms, it found that its right arm had been bound more tightly than the left, immobilizing it for the numerous needles that sprouted from its dermal plating.

Why they would put anything through the dermal plating rather than peeling it away, it didn’t understand. Then again, it wasn’t meant to understand such things.

“You’ve been unconscious for two days,” Zarya continued. “Baptiste had to put an IV in you since you haven’t been able to keep anything down.”

It said nothing at first, the ringing echoes of something reverberating in its shell. “It must see its handler,” it said.

“He’s fine,” Zarya told it. “We were told that you’d ask for him, though.” She pressed a button on the berth and it began to shift it into a sitting position. “Drink,” she said, holding a cup to its lips. “And then we can see about bringing him here so you can see him.”

It refused and the liquid spilled down its chin. An annoyed look crossed Zarya’s face.

“You need to drink,” she said.

“It must see its handler.”

“You’re in no condition to move,” Zarya hissed. “Drink and we will bring him here.”

It was cold, could feel it in all of its systems. It felt its pumps increase in tempo. The world spun in ways that it wasn’t used to and it tugged insistently against its cuffs. It needed to know. It needed to know that it hadn’t killed its handler.

Around it, the machines began to wail.

The door burst open and Jean-Baptiste Augustin skidded to a stop. “Calm him down,” he barked at Zarya.

It was unlikely that she would be able to win against the strength of a drone like Cyberninja, but it didn’t want to deal with the struggle. It yanked at the cuffs. The weakness in its limbs was terrifying. Had they paralyzed it?

Zarya braced it, holding it nearly immobile in the bed.

The machines wailed.

The next memory file gripped it hard, dragged it down like a block of concrete tied around the neck.

*-*-*

_Hands pinned it. There were at least four people over it, their faces shadowed and blank like mannequins. Another set of hands locked its arms down in thick leather straps, their edges digging into its dermal plating._

_There was a woman nearby. She had different-colored eyes and when she smiled, it felt afraid. Afraid and angry._

_“Oh, I’ll have fun with you,” she said. Her voice was low and she purred like a cat as she spoke. “You can scream, if you want to. Nobody is here to save you. Nobody will come—you’ve already made sure of that.”_

_It didn’t want to scream; it wouldn’t give her the satisfaction._

_It struggled, but the hands holding it down were stronger. They restrained it at its wrists, elbows, shoulders; more straps held its legs down at the knees and ankles and another buckled tight around its throat._

_“It will hurt,” the woman said. “Even the best medicine can’t take all the pain away.” Her smile was the slash of a knife, a wicked promise. “And why would I waste good medicine on a Doll?”_

_The needle piercing its dermal plating burned; the liquid inside, which in this strange memory file seemed to glow as if filled with light, burned._

_How often had it felt like it was burning but not consumed? This time it did. It burned; it ate away at it._

_It could feel itself falling apart as the plunger slowly slid downward._

It was screaming, despite being caught in the throes of the memory file. It could feel its vocalizer straining but it couldn’t hear that it was screaming for its handler.

The restraints dug into its wrists and ankles as it bucked and struggled against hands that weren’t there, tried to move away from a needle injecting glowing liquid into its chassis.

_“Oh Hanzo,” Akande Ogundimu said as it screamed. “You should have taken me up on my offer. But now you will watch Overwatch fall—you will watch your beloved husband die. You will watch your brother, all of your little friends fall. And you will be the one to do it.”_

_The woman’s voice laughed. Despite its screams, it could still hear them clearly. “This is just the beginning.”_

_“How long will it take?”_

_“As long as you want it to,” the woman purred back. “We can go about it two ways: the fast way, or the slow way. Both have their merits—and he will suffer either way.”_

_Akande Ogundimu grunted. “We’re running low on volunteers for the Dollhouse program,” he said. “And our existing operatives are being spread thin. Go as slow as you can to ensure success but fast enough to give us a viable asset soon.”_

_“How disappointing,” the woman said and leaned over it. If she was bothered by its wiggling and screaming, she gave no sign. Her two-colored eyes blazed, her knife-sharp smile ready to cut. “I would have vivisected you. A waste of good medicine on a Doll but imagine a Dollhouse full of dragons like you.”_

_She touched its arm and its skin crawled._

_“This will have to go, of course. Or maybe you can keep your little pets. We’ll see.” Then she leaned close enough that he couldn’t avoid looking into her wild eyes. They were the eyes of a mad-person in someone wielding a scalpel and needle._

_They should have marked delirium, madness, but it knew deep within its bones that she was none of those things. She did not lack sanity; she lacked ethics._

_One of her hands, which ended in poisonous nails filed like claws to a sharp point, cradled its cheek. How it could feel such a terrible touch through the burning in its body, it would never know._

_“It’s okay,” she whispered in false sincerity. “You can scream, you can fight. It won’t matter in the end. You’re mine now.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Summary:** In its memory, Akande notes that Hanzo should have taken him up on his offer and now he will watch Overwatch fall and be the one to do it. Akande discusses the procedure with an odd-eyed woman and tells her that they need viable assets as fast as possible and authorizes her to move as slowly as necessary to ensure that Cyberninja doesn't fail. 
> 
> The odd-eyed woman notes that she wouldn't have chosen Hanzo for the Dollhouse Program and would love to see the Dollhouse full of dragons. 
> 
> \-----
> 
> Let me now what you think! Did you love it? Hate it? Do you have theories about what is happening or what will happen?
> 
> I love hearing from you all. Hearing your thoughts makes me more excited to write the story. I'm so glad to hear from you. 
> 
> Feel free to come and find me on Twitter at [Dracoduceus](https://twitter.com/dracoduceus). I try to post updates and schedules of when things will be posted and where. Sometimes I also post sneak peeks and excerpts. 
> 
> ~DC


	8. Smooth River Stones: 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It knows that it trusts its handler, but the things that its handler says do not always make sense to it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Warnings/Tags:** discussions of suicide, discussion of murder and torture, Cyberninja is stubbornly in denial

There were voices around it.

Discussing it.

They knew it was broken. Its handler would die if he was not already killed.

It despaired as it floated in a strange kind of limbo between powered-down and powered-on.

“I’m surprised you want to know,” its handler said. He sounded exhausted, but he was alive.

“We restrained him,” Jean-Baptiste Augustin said. “And he started screaming. We don’t know anything about him now, or what makes him tick.”

“Or,” Zenyatta said. “What makes it panic. It is…not forthcoming about itself, most likely because it is afraid that if we know too much about it, then we will realize that it is broken. ‘Broken’,” he added quickly, “in the sense that it is no longer operating within the limits of its programming.”

A moment of silence. It lay still in bed, still not yet able to access its motor functions, so it listened.

“He’s been doing that for a while,” its handler said. “Which is why I wanted to bring him here. Familiar faces, familiar places, and the best care—care by people who actually want him to get better. That’s all I wanted for him.”

Someone cleared their throat. It didn’t recognize the voice. “From the beginning,” the new voice said. “If you please, Agent McCree.”

Its handler laughed hollowly. “I’m no agent,” he said. Then he continued, “It was around the time we were just giving up looking for him. I got a message on my comm. Just a sound clip of him screaming.” He paused to swallow thickly. “Screaming for me. For help. For someone to stop. I remember thinking that whatever had got him screaming had to be bad—I’d never heard him make noises like that before.

“I learned later that it wasn’t just torture—those sound clips were from his treatments. Whatever it is, whatever it does, it burns. Very few have been able to withstand it.”

“That was around the time you left,” the unfamiliar voice remembered. “Was it because of that?”

Its handler laughed hollowly. “One of the reasons,” he admitted, and suddenly so many things made sense.

Jesse McCree was with Overwatch—or had been before he was its handler. Something had happened that made him leave. Had Talon made him a better offer? What else had been in those audio clips that had made him so broken?

It knew that its handler was dangerous. He’d said so many times, had proven it time and again. But what had broken him?

He had a spouse, it knew; he wore their ring on a chain around his neck. Was that why? Did someone torture his spouse—his husband, from the story—and that was what made him break?

Unexpectedly he felt…sorry. Its poor handler.

“I knew he was out there,” its handler continued, oblivious to its epiphany. “The sound clips weren’t that old, so I knew that he was alive, somewhere. They kept coming so I knew that I wasn’t too late. As long as I could keep thinking about that, as long as I could focus on that, I could keep going.”

Its handler choked on a hollow laugh and it ached to move but it couldn’t access its limbs. It wanted to touch its handler the way that he had so often touched it: softly, soothing. As if he was trying to ease its pain.

More than anything, it wanted that. It wanted its handler to stop sounding so broken, so defeated; it wanted so badly that it wasn’t even afraid to want.

“Then one day I got another message; this time it was a video.” Its handler took a deep, shuddering breath. “They were putting him through his paces. His eyes were so blank—he was like Widowmaker. They told me that they had a job opening for me. Said that his last handlers were…inadequate. He needed a handler to make him profitable; if they couldn’t find one, they would terminate him.”

Its handler laughed hollowly. “I’d been trained to withstand all kinds’a torture,” he said, a twang of an accent coming into his low voice. “But that…was just something I couldn’t handle. They’d had to have been planning it, whittling me down. Maybe I’m weak, but I couldn’t just…”

There was a long moment of silence. “We can never know what we will do in any situation,” Zenyatta said gently. “We can only do our best when we stand before adversity. You did what you thought was right; you did you best. Nobody could ask anything more.”

The moment of silence that stretched afterwards made Cyberninja sure that many disagreed with that statement. That they thought that its handler should have done something different.

It wondered what it would have done. Could it have done what they expected its handler to do? But then it decided that machines could not feel such feelings of attachment.

(It ignored that it did. That it trusted its handler implicitly. That hearing this conversation proved that it felt…fond of its handler. Perhaps it simply wasn’t a good drone; perhaps, despite Zenyatta’s most sincere insistence, it was simply broken.)

“I accepted their offer,” its handler said. “You all know that. It was the only way to keep him alive.”

“I doubt that they’d just…give you full control over him,” the unfamiliar voice said. “There’s something you’re omitting.”

Its handler laughed hollowly. “They sent us in teams. Widowmaker and the Reaper were sent out with us to make sure we obeyed. They made me order him to kill people. Innocent people. Women; children. They kept us under tight surveillance at all times. They made me order him…” he trailed off. “I made him kill…”

Another long moment of silence. “I won’t apologize, if that’s what you’re looking for,” its handler said sharply. “I did what I had to do.”

“You killed—”

“Yes,” its handler interrupted. “We killed fifty-seven former Overwatch and Blackwatch agents in the past year. Before their deaths, most were tortured. Their families were murdered as well, sometimes right in front of them. We ordered the deaths of them all.”

It remembered the deaths. Not all of them—certainly not the number that its handler outlined—but then, it would have been reprogrammed after each one. Information from the field would be analyzed and then the technicians would wipe it of all information that wasn’t strictly necessary for its function.

It remembered waiting with its handler, watching a target, hunting him and his family. How many other memory files did it have like that?

“We killed politicians, scientists, activists,” its handler continued. “And their families. We sent messages and left a trail of death behind us. And I ordered it all. I told him to do it; I told him to fire the gun, to break their necks, to push them off the edge; to drown them, to cut them, to suffocate them. I told him to and I sat there and I watched. You don’t need to remind me of my sins,” he spat, his voice cracking. “I’m remind of it every time I close my eyes. I can still hear their screaming.”

It powered on fully, something deep within responding to its handler’s distress. At this point, it wasn’t sure that it was only a result of its programming.

Its handler was looking down at it, his eyes wet. There were dark smears beneath his eyes and he looked thin. “I can still hear them,” he whispered. “And I still ask myself what is wrong with me that I would allow so much death just to keep one person with me.”

“There is—”

“I know,” its handler interrupted, still looking down at Cyberninja. “A small subset of people that would do anything to protect those closest to them. Their own sense of worth is nothing compared to those that are close to them. I know; we all received psych evals back in the day for just that reason. No, I’m afraid that I don’t even have that poor excuse.” He sighed and the motion seemed to make him collapse in on himself. “I just…couldn’t let him go.”

* * *

“You must have a lot of questions,” its handler observed as it slowly sat up. The world pitched around it and its handler seemed to move as if to catch it, but was brought up short by the shackles around his wrist and the lack of his other arm.

Zenyatta caught it and gently eased it into a sitting position. He settled down on a chair nearby, his long fingers folded as if in prayer.

There were others in the room. The woman that had sat with it while its tank purged. A gorilla whose jumpsuit bore the logo of the Horizon Lunar Colony. Dr. Ziegler. Jean-Baptiste Augustin. Zarya.

They all sat in silence, their faces pinched into a variety of expressions from disappointment to horror.

“It is not meant to ask questions,” it said simply.

“Your programming is degrading,” Dr. Ziegler said sharply. “We all know it.”

It kept its eyes on its handler. “I think I see the issue,” Zenyatta said suddenly. “McCree, what happens to handlers after their asset has been…decommissioned?”

“They’re repurposed,” its handler said, making a face. “Or they’re killed. It depends on…” he trailed off. “Fuck.”

“What?” the gorilla asked, surprising Cyberninja. Its voice had been the one that it had heard earlier. The gorilla peered at Cyberninja from behind a pair of glasses that seemed out of place on its simian face.

“Cyberninja thinks that we’ll kill McCree,” Zenyatta explained. “That’s why it hasn’t been forthcoming with any information—it believes that once we know that it is ‘broken’, then it will be decommissioned. And, I suspect, if a Doll is broken, then the person that broke the Doll is also decommissioned.”

The gorilla snorted. “What do you mean?”

“Killed,” its handler said simply. “He thinks that if he tells you—or me—that he is broken, he will be killed…and so will I.”

“Isn’t that what you wanted though?” Dr. Ziegler asked and it couldn’t help looking at her.

Was she now a threat? Her teeth were gritted like a snarling animal’s. It was terrifyingly weak but it would find the strength to protect its handler. Even if the gorilla attacked, it would keep fighting until it could fight no more.

“To just drop him off here and wander off? Maybe die in a corner somewhere? Maybe get Genji to kill you like he keeps threatening?” she continued.

“That was the goal,” its handler agreed, to its surprise. “Fuck Ange, what did you think was going to happen? That I’d drop him here and go back to Talon? They’d kill me and then come back for him if they knew I left him here. Did you think I’d just leave? Where would I go?” he barked a low, hollow laugh. He seemed to sink deeper into himself.

For some reason, it remembered him smiling. He had dimples, a lopsided smile; there was a nearly-invisible scar in his lips. His eyes crinkled with his smile and it made a worn face look almost boyish.

“We need to consider resources and…if we can take care of him,” the gorilla said.

“He isn’t a pet,” Zenyatta observed.

“But he takes up resources,” Jean-Baptiste Augustin pointed out. “We don’t necessarily have the budget to devote to his care.”

“You had a budget before,” Zarya pointed out, her voice a low rumble. “Or, as soon as Hanzo and McCree left, did you remove them from it? To save some money?”

The gorilla frowned at her. “The budget is constantly shifting,” he said. “We do not get paid for the work we do—might I remind you that while we are not illegal, we are not exactly sponsored for the work we do?”

“You are not thinking about this the right way,” the woman said and it looked closely at her. She was older but no less fit and wore a dark blue scarf over her silver hair. Beneath one eye—the only one, as the other was hidden by a dark blue eye patch that matched her scarf—was a tattoo.

The gorilla grimaced. “Oh?” he asked a little sharply. His teeth flashed warningly.

“You’re not, Winston,” the woman said, her eye on Cyberninja.

It felt himself unnerved beneath her piercing stare, as hard as an eagle’s unfeeling gaze. It was much like Widowmaker’s golden eyes and just as dangerous and wild. Still, it didn’t move, met her gaze so that, if she was like Widowmaker, she did not think that it was submitting to her.

“You’re only thinking of our resources,” the woman continued. “And not the assets that you are removing from Talon. Releasing them to be reclaimed by Talon is not an option.”

Zarya grunted. “If you are thinking of executing them,” she began, her voice a low rumble.

“Hardly,” the woman replied. “I would—as much as you—like to see them join us again. I would like to look at him—” she jerked her chin at Cyberninja, turning her eye to the gorilla. “—and have him look back at me as a person and not a Doll that has no soul, that does not move without an order. It is not for us to decide whether they should die or not.”

Its handler snorted. Jean-Baptiste Augustin stepped closer, checked the machines around Cyberninja. “Lie still,” he told Cyberninja and it considered disobeying to be contrary. He was not its handler to order it around.

“Listen to him,” its handler said and strangely it wanted to sigh—like a human—in disappointment.

But it obeyed its handler and remained still as Jean-Baptiste Augustin fussed around it. “Do you think you are up to a light meal?” he asked it. “Very light. I’m keeping the IV in you anyway, but we should try to start easing you off.”

It didn’t respond though its fuel system, always slow to wake up, was beginning to send it warning signals that it was hungry.

“Are you hungry?” its handler asked. “What are your systems reading?”

“Fuel intake is low,” it responded simply.

Jean-Baptiste Augustin snorted and walked out of the door. He returned shortly with a tray and a bowl of broth, which he offered to Cyberninja.

“Fuel up,” its handler ordered and it obeyed, lifting the bowl and drinking deeply.

“How much did you hear?” its handler asked, his tired face breaking into a kind smile.

It was an order and it was always happy to obey its handler. “You were discussing it,” it said. “It is functional,” it added.

“What were we discussing?” its handler asked.

“Your history,” it replied.

Its handler smiled sadly. “And yours,” he said. “I’m sure you’ve spoken with people here?”

“It has spoken with Zenyatta,” it said and saw Zarya’s lips twitch into a smile that she quickly hid when it omitted listing anyone else. Dr. Ziegler scowled.

The smile that its handler gave it told it that he knew that it was lying—that much had been clear in its reports to him—but that same smile told it that he didn’t mind.

Bizarre.

“I’m sure you’ve heard people call you something,” its handler said cajolingly. “Haven’t you wondered why?”

“It does not wonder,” it said automatically. In reality, it hadn’t really given it much thought. It had no true name, merely its callsign. ‘Hanzo’ was just another pet name, like the little things that its handler sometimes called it.

Then it thought of the whorls of fingerprints on its dermal plating, the crescent-shaped scar on the webbing between forefinger and thumb. Did these belong to Hanzo? Was it a recreation of this person?

In some ways, it would make sense. What better way to send a message than with the face of someone you knew and loved?

Was Hanzo an Overwatch agent? Was that why they all stared at it with horror and despair? Did they think that it was the human that it resembled?

“Cyberninja,” its handler said very softly, in a way that it knew that it wasn’t quite an order. “Do you know where you were born?”

“It was not born,” it said automatically, though—as all facts did—an answer rose in its processor: Keiai Hospital in Fujimi City, Saitama prefecture.

Its handler watched it with that same gentle smile. He looked tired. “It’s okay,” he said. “This could take years.”

“Change takes time,” Zenyatta said serenely. “But it can only go as fast—or as slow—as Cyberninja wants. If it wants to remain as it is, we cannot stop it.”

“He, please,” Dr. Ziegler said in a clipped voice.

Zenyatta tipped his head. “It,” he corrected. “Because that is how it describes itself and how it is most comfortable discussing itself. Why should we force something on it that it does not want?”

Drones do not want, it itched to say but didn’t because they weren’t talking to it. But ‘it’ was safe. With ‘it’, it would never presume to be human, would never make a mistake like that. It was a Doll.

It thought again of the fingerprints on its hand, of the jagged-crescent scar. How it had found a match to the scar in one of the broken memory files. It—or the owner of the memory file, and the owner of the scars on its dermal plating—had been talking to Agent D.Va.

“We do not need to decide right now,” the gorilla said with an enormous huff. He turned to Dr. Ziegler. “I would like regular updates on his progress.” His big face twisted into a human expression of disdain that seemed alien on his simian face. “It. Its progress.” He grunted as he got to his feet and knuckles and walked out as regally as any general.

Like Ogundimu.

The name brought back lingering traces of the memory file. Of his voice, of the fire that had burned through it. It wasn’t just anger, it realized.

It was hate. Burning, all-consuming hate.

It had heard the words before but knowing them was different than realizing them. Hate was what it felt for Ogundimu and the odd-eyed woman after the most recent…fit. Replay. That was a better word for it—a replay.

Though it could not fully understand why, for the memories were not its own, it could understand the replay’s hate. It could understand the fear that had frozen it to its struts in the replay. How often had it felt such things beneath the impartial knives of the technicians? As they talked over it as they worked on it.

It was a Doll, of course. It was not meant to hear.

This time, the hate it felt was its own. A Doll. That’s all it was, wasn’t it? A Doll, a tool to be used by others; a plaything. Something to be ordered around, to be held in place by protocol. To be moved around like a pawn on a chessboard and discarded just as casually.

Its handler moved next to it, the chains of his cuffs clicking, and snapped it out of the raging inferno of its hatred. The flames were warmer than the look in its handler’s eyes, but though it should hate him, it still preferred that soft glow to the fires of its hate.

The hate was still there, a forest fire at its back, but its handler was a cool forest night, a small campfire, a warm blanket, and good company. And then, before it could wonder where that thought came from, a replay that echoed it:

_Sparks from the small campfire rose into the inky darkness of the trees. Their dark silhouettes looked like jagged teeth against the indigo sky, broken by bruises of violet and spotted with silver stars. The moon had not yet risen but it was warm and content._

_Its handler sat next to it and here was one of those memories of his smile, the creases around his eyes deepening. There was his lopsided smile, the scar on his lips pulling. The fire turned his eyes black and gold and silver, his hair itself turning into strings of gold and orange fire._

_He pulled it closer by a warm hand around its waist and it adjusted the serape—red with a gold design, not solid black like it was used to—wrapped around their shoulders. “It’s not much,” he said and his face was so close to its own._

_It wasn’t afraid of this touch, though it had felt such things from other handlers. No, this was its handler and in this replay, whoever it was wanted this. They wanted it so badly that Cyberninja thought that they might have been dying—its chest felt light, its fuel pump cycling out of tempo so that it simultaneously felt too aware of every little thing around it and numbed to everything but the proximity of its handler._

_“But happy anniversary, Han,” its handler said and it felt its lips curve into a smile. They leaned close and slotted their lips together, their noses brushing._

“Why are you crying?”

It looked at Zenyatta, who had asked. At some point, everyone but Zenyatta, Zarya, and its handler had left.

Sometime during the replay, the cold air of that night in the forest cooled the fires of its hate, at least for the moment. It was just as well, it thought. It did not wield that fire, and would need to always run from it or it would be consumed by it. 

It tried to lift a hand to its cheek but the cuffs clicked; its handler looked pained, the most distraught that it had ever seen him.

“Here,” Zenyatta said, standing and pulling something from the pockets of his orange pants. He gently dabbed at Cyberninja’s face and handed the square of white cloth in Cyberninja’s left hand. “Zarya, do you think that there is any reason that they must both be locked up?”

It saw Zarya made a face. “No,” she said. “I was about to unlock them.” She did so, pulling a few keys out of her pockets and shuffling through them before unlocking Cyberninja’s left arm and its handler. “If I unlock your other arm, will you be careful of the needles?”

Wordlessly, its vocalizer feeling strangely strangled and offline, it nodded. She unlocked that arm as well and went back to her spot. After a quick glance at all of them, she reached into the bag under the chair and pulled out the cloth pinched between the hoops.

“Why are you crying?” its handler asked, scooting forward. His chair screeched against the tile and they all winced at the sound. He reached out with a hand and hesitated over Cyberninja’s knee, peering up at it with a strange kind of hesitancy.

Didn’t he know that Cyberninja enjoyed his touch?

The realization—the thought put into words—momentarily confused it enough that it said before it could stop itself, “It replayed another memory file.”

A strange kind of intensity entered its handler’s face. “What was it about?”

“A forest,” it said. “A campfire. You were there. Your serape was red.” It hesitated. Zarya was looking at it as well. “It was your anniversary. Yours and…your husband’s.” seeing its handler suck in a breath, it connected a few other dots and dared to say, “That’s who they call Hanzo. You called him ‘Han’.”

Its handler’s face was pained and it hurt in sympathy. It ached to see that expression. Slowly, its handler leaned back enough to reach beneath the collar of his shirt to pull out the worn necklace that it had so often seen him holding. Threaded through it were a pair of rings that clicked together. He awkwardly pulled it over his head and held it out to Cyberninja who, confused, accepted them in the hand that bristled with needles and tubes.

“Be careful, now,” Zarya cautioned, but she was also leaning forward intently.

It looked at the rings in its palm. It could see its reflection in one of them.

“You saw an anniversary,” Zenyatta said. “So why were you crying?” It didn’t want to argue that it didn’t cry, that it didn’t feel. They knew that it was broken. The thought made it sad, but it needed to say this.

It looked at its handler. “He loved you,” it said. “He loved you so much that it hurt.” It watched its handler swallow hard, his throat bobbing. His eyelashes were wet. “What happened to him?”

Asking this felt like a dream. It thought that it could almost feel the last of its programming breaking to ask such things openly. To dare to be anything other than the Doll it was supposed to be.

Its handler swallowed. “I lost him,” he said in a cracked voice. “Talon took him.”

“You work for Talon,” it said. It paused to think. “You followed him.”

“Talon took him and I followed,” its handler agreed. “I was told that if he didn’t have a handler that got him to produce results, then he would be decommissioned.” Its handler paused. “Do you understand what I’m saying?”

“No.”

Zarya let her head hang from her shoulders in disappointment; her glasses fell low on her nose, kept from falling by her nose ring. But its handler only smiled softly. His eyes creased but not in the way that matched Cyberninja’s replay. It made his eyes look more like sunken holes in his face than anything.

“Don’t worry about it,” its handler said. He looked at the rings as Cyberninja offered them back. “Will you take the smaller one off the chain? I would, but…” he trailed off and wiggled his stump.

Cyberninja glanced at it and obeyed. The latch was difficult but it managed without breaking it. The chain pooled like molten gold on the blanket in its lap; the rings resting alone on its palm somehow felt heavier than they had with the chain.

It placed the smaller ring on the bed and threaded the chain through the larger one, closing the clasp. Despite itself it felt sad for the smaller ring, being parted from its partner after so long.

Gently, it scooped both rings into its palm and offered them to its handler. He picked up the chain and eased it back over his head.

“Keep that,” its handler said.

It considered the ring. “It is not Hanzo,” it said.

Its handler flinched. “I know,” he said with a heavy sigh. “Just…keep it. I can’t explain why. Please? Keep it?”

Once more it looked down at the ring and thought that it saw the shadow of a snake over the band, but it must have been distortion. It closed its fingers over the band.

“Drink,” Zenyatta said, offering it a cup. “It’s water. Baptiste would like to keep your fluid levels up.” He waited until Cyberninja took the cup and sipped before adding, “At this moment, you are not to be decommissioned; neither is McCree. You can rest easy.”

It paused.

“That was decided earlier,” Zenyatta told it gently. “Overwatch is not sure how to…make use of you.”

“It draws on their budget.”

Zenyatta nodded serenely and Zarya made a face. “You do, as does McCree. But nobody wants to decommission you and releasing the two of you to be collected by Talon once more is not something that we can afford. So, for now, you both are safe in our care.”

It could not believe such a thing, could not afford to. Still, it had failed its mission and as a result, had condemned its handler. It wanted to hope that Zenyatta was right.

“For now, you need to rest,” Zenyatta told it gently. “McCree?”

Its handler sighed gustily. “Yeah,” he agreed. To Cyberninja, he said, “I gotta go back to the brig. I’ll see you later, okay?”

“Will you?” it asked before it could stop itself. Everyone in the room froze. “Or will you let yourself waste away?”

After a long moment its handler laughed. It sounded closer to a sob. “I was never very good at taking care of myself.” It wasn’t quite an answer, much less the answer it was looking for, but it had already overstepped its bounds and said nothing.

“I will make sure he eats,” Zarya promised, to its surprise and, from his nervous look, its handler’s as well. Her face darkened. “And I will make sure that he gets fed.”

It trusted her and it relaxed slightly. Shaking his head, its handler allowed her to chain him up again and lead him away. Strangely enough, it worried about the ring still clutched in its hand. Would the other ring be lonely without it?

But it was an object and objects had no thought or feeling.

(So why did it?)

When the door closed behind them, Zenyatta turned to Cyberninja. “You lied earlier,” he said with calm surety. “Why?”

“What was being said was impossible.”

That seemed to amuse Zenyatta and it felt a burn—irritation, like the time that Sombra had poked and poked and poked it to see if it would move—flare through it. It did not like these sensations, these feelings, but they came quicker now. Stronger.

Most terrifying was that it could recognize them. They were like greeting an old friend (though it had never had friends, much less old ones) instead of a new experience. After the initial ones it felt—fear, anger—it came easier to put names to them.

“Why is it impossible?” Zenyatta wondered.

It looked down at the ring in its hand in lieu of answering. Strangely enough, it felt…tired. Worn down.

It felt like a stone that had been tumbled by the river. A mighty boulder at the top of the mountain that had turned into a pebble large enough to be held in the palm of the hand by the time it reached the base.

Despite itself, it wondered if someone would come along and find it valuable enough to keep. It was plain, it was broken, and not the glory of programming and death that it once was, but surely someone might find it worth keeping, worth treasuring.

The thought hurt like a physical thing. Like the replays it had been saving, meaningless and useless that they were, would someone hold it close? Hoard it?

Its handler did, it realized. Or, he had until he brought them to Overwatch. Had tried to give it away. But no one had wanted such a plain little pebble that was a shadow of its former glory; they wanted the boulder. Would its handler get to keep it? Or was it about to be discarded?

Too many questions. There were too many questions and it hated it. Never before had it longed so badly for its programming. Never before had it wanted so badly to stop thinking; to return to being a Doll that sat still and didn’t move until someone told it to.

Zenyatta lifted one of his orbs from the cluster around his neck and gently placed it on the table. The lights didn’t appear and it was reassured despite itself, having been afraid of what they might tell the Shambali monk. “It’s been a long day,” he said. “And you’re still recovering. Will you be alright if I leave you now?”

It confirmed, glad to be alone, even if it was stuck with these troublesome thoughts.

The omnic left and it leaned back against its too-soft bed and stared at the ceiling. Its handler didn’t lie to it, but surely he was wrong? The thought was impossible. It was a machine; a Doll.

But then…

Unbidden, its thoughts went to the decommissioned Doll it had seen. It had been leaking fluid from its optic sensors, something that an omnic didn’t do. Then again, there were many models of omnic and many modifications that could be done. It had been a Doll that cried as it was cut open, as the red fluid inside was spilled on the guttered table.

It considered its hands again. The ragged-crescent scar. Broken fingernails and cracked cuticles.

It was impossible. Its handler didn’t lie to it. Those two thoughts warred in its head. It was impossible. Its handler didn’t lie to it.

When Jean-Baptiste Augustin brought it a bowl of broth, he checked the lines in its arm and disconnected it. He recommended that it rest and drink the broth and the water, which he put in easy reach. Then he left it, just as Zenyatta had, with its thoughts.

Zenyatta’s orb sat on the table next to the pitcher, just as inert as it had been when he had left it there. It was something safe to focus on until it could regain enough control to power itself down.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Love it? Hate it? Tell me your thoughts. I'm always excited to hear from you. 
> 
> You can find me here or on Twitter at [Dracoduceus](https://twitter.com/dracoduceus). There I post the occasional preview and also talk about what I post and where. 
> 
> ~DC


	9. Smooth River Stones: 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If it was asked to choose, it would choose him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Chapter Notes/Warnings:** canon-typical violence (blood and background character death is mentioned but not explicitly described), suicidal ideation
> 
> This is my favorite chapter so far. I hope you guys enjoy it as well.

“Cyberninja,” a gravelly voice said. “Power on.”

It obeyed, more out of habit than true programming.

“Talon Override,” the voice said. It came from the omnic Medusa, whose optics glowed red in the twilight of its room. The door to the hallway was open. “Mike-Delta-Four. Confirm.”

Something wasn’t right.

Medusa was not meant to wake it up, but the override was correct. It meant that Talon—Medusa specifically—was taking control of Cyberninja. It meant that something was wrong with its handler.

For a moment it wondered if Overwatch, Bastion, Zenyatta, had all been another corrupted memory file. Then it saw a pile of flowers in the corner and the orb of a Shambali monk on the table next to it. It felt fear for its handler and it knew.

“Confirmed,” it said and stood as was expected.

Medusa stalked around the bed, his dark cloak swirling around his armored legs. He crouched as if expecting someone to see him and Cyberninja realized that he expected it. Medusa was in enemy territory; he was not…comfortable here like Cyberninja was.

“Cyberninja, report,” Medusa said. “How long have you been here?”

“It does not know,” it replied. “It has been confined to its quarters.”

“Where is your handler?” Medusa asked.

“You are its handler.”

Birdlike, Medusa bobbed his head in a nod. “Where is Jesse McCree?”

“Contained.”

“Not here.”

“No, handler.”

Medusa made a pleased noise that was like the rattle of bolts. “Take me to him.”

It walked to the door. Turned right. Left. It traced the hallways in its memories and felt strange that Medusa’s quiet, clicking footsteps replaced Zarya’s in its memory. There was no sunlight streaming through the windows, only moonlight.

Medusa turned off the alarm on the door and they both walked through. Cyberninja turned the corner and as it had hoped, it could recognize where it was.

It walked around the next corner a few steps ahead of Medusa, who was looking around behind them. By the time he turned forward, Cyberninja was standing next to Bastion. It could hear Medusa startle, clearly not expecting to find a Bastion model omnic in turret mode.

Hearing Cyberninja, Bastion powered on and lifted the unfeeling eyes of their barrel toward it. Why was Cyberninja out so late? They wondered. And who was that? Are they a friend?

“What did it say?” Medusa hissed.

“They”, please, Bastion said.

So, he couldn’t understand Bastion? “The Bastion unit asked if you were friendly.” Bastion made a strange noise that sounded either like they were reloading or were suspicious. It hoped that the latter was winning and that Bastion would figure out what it needed them to do.

Medusa laughed. “Only to Talon. Tell it to power down and take me to Jesse McCree.”

Bastion turned their turret to Cyberninja. It whistled three cascading trills to them, another of the few things in that rudimentary omnic language that it could vocalize. Bastion whistled back and tilted the barrel of their turret down. They fell still.

The bird Ganymede was nowhere to be seen.

Medusa bobbed closer, peering at Bastion. “A Bastion model,” he observed needlessly. “What is it doing here?” he wasn’t asking Cyberninja so it didn’t answer. “It looks wretched. Did Overwatch pick it up out of an abandoned Crisis battlefield?” he laughed derisively as he approached. “Take me to Jesse McCree,” he ordered Cyberninja, looking away from Bastion.

That was when Bastion moved. They had waited until Medusa had come closer and wasn’t able to hide behind a wall. This close, Bastion was the most lethal.

They shifted, their rusty armor moving into a new configuration; their gatling gun moved aside and a new turret took its place. With a booming roar, Bastion fired a shell point-blank into Medusa’s chest; he was blown backward, end over end. No matter what kind of protective armor he had to be using, it knew that Bastion’s strange tank mode would win.

The two of them moved toward Medusa and in this form, Bastion was able to move on segmented wheels, allowing their smoking turret to remain trained on Medusa. Cyberninja dodged out of the way of a shot by the sparking, twitching Medusa. This did not bother Bastion; the bullet ricocheted.

Bastion lowered their turret and fired. This close, there was blowback and Bastion partially lifted themselves off the ground with the force. An enormous section of rock and earth exploded into the air.

Before his chassis had even stopped smoking, Cyberninja scrambled into the shallow crater and ripped open Medusa’s ports, removing the backup tracking devices implanted and the chips that allowed all omnics to connect to each other wirelessly. It showed its prizes to Bastion, who obligingly rolled over them to ensure that they were obliterated.

Bastion wondered, as they transformed back into their typical turret form and then to their bipedal form, if Cyberninja was alright? What had happened that had brought it out to visit Bastion? Who was that omnic?

“It needs to see Jesse McCree,” it said. “They’re after him.”

Bastion trilled and began stomping toward base. They would go with it, they said. They would stand guard in the brig with it. Then they paused. They supposed that they should drag Medusa’s body back to base, just in case. Bastion insisted on dragging Medusa behind them and Cyberninja let them, watching as it grabbed one of Medusa’s arms and irreverently pulled the body along as they walked.

An enormous man stepped out of the base and Cyberninja slowed slightly. He wasn’t wearing a helmet or visor, which was the only way that Cyberninja knew that he wasn’t an enormous omnic. As it was, he hadn’t been aware that humans could get so large. If it stood on Bastion’s shoulders, only then would it be larger than this armored man. In one enormous hand, he held the largest hammer that Cyberninja had ever seen as easily as one might hold a broom. The shaft of the hammer alone was taller than it was.

“What happened?” the man asked brusquely, his voice booming. “We heard you shooting.” Then he seemed to notice Cyberninja. “You are not meant to be unaccompanied.”

Bastion lifted Medusa’s body and wiggled it. They trilled that Cyberninja stopped an invasion attempt but there may be more danger to Jesse McCree. To Cyberninja, they added that Zenyatta had told them that it was missing memories. That was Reinhardt Wilhelm, an ex-Crusader from Germany and he didn’t like Bastion very much because he had fought against many other Bastion models during The War. Did Cyberninja remember Reinhardt?

It didn’t respond as the giant took a few booming steps closer. The door to the base behind him opened and Zenyatta stepped out into the cool evening air. “Cyberninja!” he called in relief upon seeing it.

Curious.

“Are you well?” Zenyatta continued. “What happened?”

Bastion wiggled Medusa’s body again. They whistled that Cyberninja had brought them a spy to shoot.

“How did you get out of your room?” Reinhardt asked Cyberninja.

Zenyatta twisted past Reinhardt and moved to Cyberninja’s side. “What happened, Cyberninja?” he asked.

“Medusa—” it gestured at the body in Bastion’s grip. “—gave it the command to power on and transfer handler title.” Zenyatta’s hands lifted to his faceplate in a human expression of shock. “It played along and brought him out here. Bastion shot it. Talon protocol is to decommission its handler.”

“And you are now going to check in on him,” Zenyatta finished with a nod.

Bastion added that they were going too, to help keep watch.

“Thank you, Bastion,” Zenyatta said. “Let’s all go.”

Reinhardt shifted his grip on his hammer. “I will go as well,” he said with a last distrustful look at Bastion. “You may need a shield.”

As their strange group entered the base and began walking toward the brig where its handler was held, Bastion told Cyberninja quietly that Reinhardt did not like Bastion very much, that he would say “I’ll be your shield” to anyone on the battlefield but very rarely would support them. They understood because of what others of their model had done to him and those he cared about, but it stung. This was the first time that Reinhardt had offered to be their shield and they were very happy.

They found Zarya on the way and this time she carried an enormous gun in both arms. Or, Cyberninja _thought_ that it was a gun. It had a similar shape, looked perhaps similar to a mini-gun, but the glowing orb of light in its split barrel implied otherwise. Much like Reinhardt and his hammer, she carried this around as if it were much lighter.

“Are we under attack?” she asked sharply.

“We are not sure yet,” Zenyatta said. “But there was a Talon agent on base trying to get to McCree. Talon is trying to reclaim them.”

Beyond them, Cyberninja saw a dark form moving. It charged down the hall and slammed the grunt against the wall. He wheezed through shattered ribs and it took his gun from his limp figures. One shot with the silenced pistol and the grunt fell still. It knelt and briskly relieved him of his extra ammo and a string of grenades.

“The base is under attack,” Cyberninja informed the group who was watching it with something akin to shock. “It needs to find its handler.” It turned and raced down the halls.

_“I promised I’d protect you, remember?”_ it wondered now if that replay had been Hanzo’s voice. It wasn’t Hanzo, even if it may wear his face. It wasn’t obligated to fulfill Hanzo’s promise but…

This was its handler.

It trusted its handler. Perhaps he had been the cause of many of its pains as Overwatch seemed to believe; perhaps he was evil. That didn’t matter to it. All it could think of was all the times that he had so gently smiled at it, how he had talked kindly to it, touched it softly. It thought of all the missions they had been on, all the time they had spent together.

The choice was easy.

It raced down dark hallways and killed every Talon grunt it found. It gathered weapons and ammunition and ran again.

The brig was empty of agents but Cyberninja still entered cautiously. The lights were flickering just as badly as they had in its visits before. It made its way to its handler’s cell and found him awake.

“The base is under attack,” it said to its handler.

He turned to look at Cyberninja and seemed surprised to find it armed and alone. “What happened?”

“Medusa was here,” Cyberninja replied. “He produced an override.” It allowed a hint of smugness to enter its voice. Charge had built up in its run to its handler and now it felt bold, too bold to pretend too hard to be the Doll it was meant to be. “It brought him to Bastion.”

Its handler laughed hollowly. “You always did have a mean streak,” he said, sounding inexplicably fond.

Cyberninja inspected the bars again. They were just large enough to slip a handgun through, which it had in excess. It armed its handler, sliding its left arm between the bars with a handgun and three magazines of bullets. How its handler was able to load and cock the handgun with only one hand, Cyberninja would never know.

It looked around. “How does it get you out of here?”

“The charge to the bars is automated,” its handler said. “There is an emergency shutoff switch, but you shouldn’t mess with it. If Overwatch finds me loose, then they will think that I’m a part of this attack.”

It didn’t like that he was right. “This is not a good place to defend,” it observed.

“Don’t,” its handler advised. “Go and help the rest of the team.”

Later, it would blame it on the charge. Something that buzzed beneath its dermal plating and made it itch for action. In the distance, it could hear the sounds of combat. It thought that it could hear Bastion’s turret; if not, Talon had brought itself a battle omnic.

“Your husband promised that he would protect you,” it said to its handler who flinched. “It is…it is not Hanzo. It is not bound to his promises, but…it will protect you. That promise it will keep.”

For a long time, its handler only stared at it with an unreadable expression. “Why?” he asked at last. His voice was harsh, like the question was forced out. “I’m the reason that you’re this way. I’ve been your handler, leading you into battle and forcing you to kill. I’ve taken you to technicians who’ve fucked with your brain, I’ve kept you in a place where you could never break free.”

“You’ve been its most caring handler,” it replied. “You ordered it, yes, but it is a drone to be ordered, a tool to be used. But you’ve cared for it better than any other handler it’s had. The technicians…hurt it; not you. So, it will protect you because you are its handler and if it was able to choose—” a lie that neither wanted to discuss at this moment, when the sounds of battle were getting louder, “—it would choose you. Again, and again.”

It armed itself briskly. Moved a new cache of weapons into the empty cell across its handler’s. It wanted something else, but didn’t know what. The phantom sensation plagued it, made it itch to reach for something that wasn’t there.

The first person came around the corner. A scout. She saw Cyberninja and paused, her hand held up to freeze the team behind her as well. “Cyberninja,” she called, her voice tinny through the speakers of her red helmet. “Name active protocol.”

“Mike-Delta-Four.”

“Mike-Delta-Four, confirmed,” she said and gestured to her team. “Cyberninja, have you found Jesse McCree?”

“Confirmed.”

The team spilled into the hallway. There were five of them, including the one it had spoken to. It drew its weapon smoothly and killed all of them. It piled the bodies into one of the empty cells. Blood darkened the floors, left dark smears on the dirty tile.

Their night passed that way. Talon grunts appeared in the darkness, called a challenge. Cyberninja reassured them and when they emerged, killed them. Their bodies piled up in the cell.

Then, the person that emerged was not a mere grunt. He appeared to be alone, but Cyberninja refused to believe that he really was.

“Cyberninja,” The Reaper said. Unlike the grunt, he walked confidently around the corner and seemed to be the first one to notice the blood on the ground. “Tidy,” he said. “How many have you killed here?” Cyberninja didn’t answer. “You are between me and my target,” The Reaper continued. “I order you to move aside.”

It remained in place.

“Right,” The Reaper said. “Talon Override Romeo-Romeo-Two.”

“Override confirmed,” Cyberninja said, because it was a confirmed override.

The Reaper stepped into its space, his bone mask stained and marked with dust and old blood. “Step aside.”

It said nothing, raising its gun and placing the muzzle beneath his chin. It pulled the trigger.

It twisted out of the way as Widowmaker fired.

The Reaper, in his wraith form, backed up. Shadowy arms reached for his shotguns. He would need to be corporeal to fire and then he would be a serious problem for Cyberninja. Once the muzzles of his guns were solid, it slammed one of them up and chopped the other wide. It brought him terribly close to The Reaper and it dodged the snapping mouth that appeared in his chest.

Too close, and it would have to dodge The Reaper’s monstrous form; too far, and it would have to dodge the hidden Widowmaker’s shots.

It shot point-blank into The Reaper’s chest and he howled in too many voices. Cyberninja dodged a kick and landed one; The Reaper wrapped a tentacle around Cyberninja’s ankle and tried to unbalance it.

The slide locked back on its gun. At some point it must have been firing but it couldn’t remember the kick or the report. It slammed its forehead into The Reaper’s mask and managed to daze him long enough to reach for the grenades on its belt.

Pulling the pin on two, it shoved them, clenched in its fist, into the gaping jaws of the eldritch horror embedded in The Reaper’s chest. The jaws clenched shut and its arm crunched as those white bone teeth tore through its armor.

They held it in place but that was fine. It stared defiantly into the darkness behind the eye sockets of The Reaper’s mask.

Suddenly, The Reaper laughed.

And laughed.

He slipped into his wraith form, releasing its hand and its crumpled wrist; the two grenades fell and rolled just in front of Cyberninja.

Its dominant hand was destroyed, couldn’t grip or move. Gritting its dental plates together, Cyberninja reached with its right for its other gun. The grenades would go off soon. Widowmaker and The Reaper would get away. In some ways it didn’t care if they did, but there was a strange, underlying fury that burned in its chest.

The charge it always felt in battle grew to levels it had never felt before. It and its handler had always tried to pull it back, to not let the charge grow into sparks. Now it was beyond that.

The world seemed to slow down.

The grenades in front of it, which were going to explode any second, were no longer a concern. The Reaper and Widowmaker were. There would be two less Dolls in the world, but that was fine. The Reaper’s death would make up for something that screamed in it for revenge.

It raised its gun even though The Reaper had already turned the corner. It tracked the motion as if it could see him. Then it fired and the world was filled with blue and white and lightning that chased the bullet.

The world returned to its true speed. It looked down at the grenades at its feet.

And then it watched them explode. Light flashed and there was heat that it didn’t feel. Fire and smoke curled around it, around a bubble it couldn’t see, and left it untouched. Fire scorched the walls, ceiling, the floors around it but nothing touched it.

When the thick smoke cleared, Zarya was jogging toward it, marked with soot and blood. Her armor was scratched and dented and there was a quick patch on her arm with lines of russet blood that stained her skin before the wound had been sealed. Putting down her weapon, nearly dropping the strange hip-cannon in her haste, she threw her enormous arms around it.

She swore at it in her native tongue and it could feel a slight tremor in her muscles even as she crushed it against the unforgiving planes of her armor. After fighting, bleeding, sweating, she didn’t smell the nicest and it wasn’t the nicest feeling to be broken against her armor, but something in it relaxed.

“I’m sorry,” she said, her voice strangely subdued. “I was so scared when I saw those grenades. I didn’t know if I could shield you in time.” Zarya bent and picked up her canon with a sigh, as if she had reconnected an arm. “Where is your handler?”

“Over here,” its handler said from his cell. “What’s this about grenades?”

As she walked past Cyberninja, she paused at the cell where it had been storing the bodies. For a long moment she stared before she glanced back at Cyberninja. Then she continued on to greet its handler.

“What’s going on?” its handler asked as Cyberninja resumed its guard.

“Talon is invading,” Zarya said simply. “They really wanted you and…Cyberninja. If he hadn’t woken Bastion, if the entire base hadn’t been sent to alert, then I think we’d all be dead.”

A long moment of silence. “Injuries?”

“Less than could have been,” Zarya replied. “No deaths, but we did have a close call. You know how hard it is to wake Lena. The warning we received with the advanced wave—an omnic that Bastion killed—was enough for all of us to get our armor and weapons ready.”

Its handler heaved a long sigh of relief. “Is the fighting still going?”

“Only in small areas,” Zarya replied. “I volunteered to come here and check on you. We hadn’t seen Cyberninja in a while and Zenyatta deduced that if we could find you, he wouldn’t be very far. Since I doubted that you would have been freed, I thought I’d check here first.”

There was a weak laugh.

“I saw the dragons,” Zarya said suddenly. “They passed through me as I entered. Did…?”

“I don’t know,” its handler said. “I can’t see anything from here.”

Zarya grunted. “Fair,” she said. She paused. “Cyberninja. Would you come back here? The fighting’s over; they say that they’re coming here to discuss our next plan of action.”

It considered the request but obeyed, careful not to slip on the blood-soaked ground.

“What happened to your hand?” Zarya asked, putting down her hip-cannon and gesturing to Cyberninja’s left hand.

Considering the arm, it held it out for her to inspect. “The Reaper bit it.”

She squinted at it as if expecting it to be joking. “Reaper. Bit you. Through your arm.”

“The Reaper’s teeth are very strong.”

Zarya grunted. It turned toward the door. “Do you hear something?”

A moment later, the gorilla rounded the corner. His great size was made larger by the armor he wore, and the strange cannon that he carried in one arm. “Oh my,” he said, voice deeper than Cyberninja remembered. “Why is it so dark over here?”

“Grenade explosion broke one of the lights,” Zarya said matter-of-factly. “And the lights in this area of the base have been falling apart. It was in the report last week but you opted to focus on the labs instead.”

The gorilla grunted and paused, his nostrils flaring. “Why does it smell like blood?”

Someone carrying a light turned the corner. It could hear her Swedish accent when she said, “Oh, it looks like a horror movie in here.”

With the light, the streaks on the ground were bright red. There was a blackened section from the grenades. Following behind her came Reinhardt and then Zenyatta and a small woman with a blue device strapped to her chest.

The floor in front of its handler’s cell was clear of blood, save for what was tracked there on the grimy tile so people gathered there and crouched.

“Are you well, Cyberninja?” Zenyatta asked, moving to look at it. “Oh, your hand.” He lifted the damaged limb gently in his hands and inspected it. The woman holding the light came over as well. “Brigitte, do you think you might be able to assist later?”

The woman was young or looked it, her face pale in the light. She had a friendly smile that she turned on Cyberninja for a moment before looking at the arm. To its relief, she didn’t reach out to touch it, only inspecting what she could see with Zenyatta holding it. “It looks to be surprisingly whole. Just a bit of paneling and wire replacement. Whatever did this missed the most finicky bits—then you’d have to ask pappa. But if you’re willing, I can handle this much.”

So, she was a technician. It wasn’t sure how to feel about that. Would she also demand to dig around in its replays? Would she demand it hand over its treasures?

For now it said nothing. It didn’t seem that she expected an answer anyway.

A diminutive man joined them, followed by Agent Song, the omnic Genji, the woman that had been marking up papers in Medical, the vigilante Soldier: 76, and the woman that had sat with it while its tank purged.

“That seems to be everyone,” the gorilla observed. The diminutive man did something to his clawed arm that made it glow an unnerving red-and-gold like molten metal; the young woman’s device on her chest brightened as well, lighting up their corner of the brig nicely.

“We’re missing Baptiste and Ange,” the woman with the blue device said.

It wondered where Bastion was.

“Bastion set up around the corner,” the technician said as if reading its thoughts. It was momentarily concerned before remembering that humans couldn’t do that. Still, it would be careful what it processed in her presence. “They’ll sound off if they see anything else show up.”

A moment later they could hear footsteps, and then Bastion’s trilled greeting.

“_Mein Gott_,” Dr. Ziegler said as she carefully walked through the puddles, as if afraid that the blood would stain her already blood- and mud-stained boots. “What happened here?”

“Talon tried to reach McCree,” Zarya said with a dark kind of chuckle. “Cyberninja showed them the error of their ways.”

Jean-Baptiste Augustin swore, but he sounded impressed. “That’s a lot of blood. Is any of it yours?” It held up its mangled hand wordlessly. “If that’s your only injury, then you’re lucky.”

“Now then,” the gorilla said, clearing his throat. “We need to consider what we should do next.”

“It’s very clear that we cannot stay here,” Jean-Baptiste Augustin said briskly. “We need to find a new base of operations immediately. Did the _Orca_ receive damage in the fight?”

“I’ll need to check,” the woman with the blue device said, frowning. “The thing is, we were all so busy that we don’t even know if anyone sabotaged it, or put a tracker on it.”

“What about them?” the diminutive man asked, jerking his chin at Cyberninja and its handler. “We gonna tote them along, too?”

There was a long moment of awkward silence. “Might I remind you,” Zarya said in a clipped voice. “That we would all be dead if Cyberninja had not woken us up.”

“That’s funny,” the small man said snidely. “I thought that Athena woke me up. Perhaps I was wrong.”

“How was Athena aware of the danger?” Reinhardt wanted to know. “I believe Bastion had been the one to inform her and ask her to send out a team-wide communique that there was an intruder.”

“How did intruders get on base?” the smaller man asked. Though he wasn’t even as tall as the armored giant’s knee, he still stood off against him as if ready to go to fisticuffs over the discussion.

The one-eyed woman shifted her rifle. It looked like a standard bolt-action sniper rifle with just enough differences that Cyberninja wondered what it actually shot. However, the diminutive man seemed to take some kind of hidden warning or signal from that tiny motion and clenched his jaws shut.

“Right now, it doesn’t matter ‘how’,” she said. “Not fully. Right now, we need to focus on getting ourselves settled and safe. We need to decide how to move and where. If there are injuries, we need to treat them.” She nodded first to Cyberninja and then to its handler. “We need to decide right now if we’re keeping them locked up or if we should allow them some freedom.”

“That is a terrible idea,” the diminutive man sputtered. “Two Talon agents?”

Zarya clicked her tongue. “Says the man that brought a Bastion unit to base.”

The man turned to scowl at her, opening his mouth as if to speak but was interrupted by Zenyatta. “What purpose would it serve for them to continue acting against us?” he wanted to know. “Talon clearly wants McCree dead.”

“Thanks,” its handler muttered.

“He is more likely to help us to stay alive, if not for the loyalty he may feel,” Zenyatta continued.

It looked at its handler who seemed frustrated that he was spoken of as if he wasn’t there. “Cyberninja,” Jean-Baptiste Augustin said abruptly. It turned to look at him. “Where do your loyalties lie?”

That was a ridiculous question.

“Its handler,” it replied simply.

“You were given two overrides tonight,” its handler observed. “Medusa and Reaper overrode your loyalty to me. So why do you say that you are still loyal?”

It was frustrated by the question. “You are its handler,” it said.

“Why not Ange? I tried to transfer the title of handler to her and you refused,” its handler pressed.

Was it wrong? It could be. It had always thought that its handler wanted it—that it was something that he was fond of. Perhaps not something he liked, but perhaps something to hold on to. Did he not want it?

The thought…made it sad.

“You…are its handler,” it said slowly, less sure of itself. As far as it was concerned, this fact was true and would never change, but it had never truly been in charge of its own destiny. Before it could stop itself, it asked, “Do you not want it?”

The one-eyed woman with the rifle snorted and then laughed. “Even as a Doll…” she trailed off, shaking her head. “You both are idiots. Release them, Winston. McCree’s too weak to do much of anything and you know that Cyberninja will just try to break him out. Given the bodies—” here she nodded at the piles of dead that Cyberninja had stored in the other cell, “—he’ll probably fight to the death if we try to hurt McCree.”

Grunting, the gorilla—evidently named Winston—reached to the glowing keypad beside the door and typed in a string of numbers. The charge on the bars sizzled out and a moment later the door swung open. Cyberninja immediately went to its handler.

“I’m fine,” its handler growled but accepted its assistance in standing.

The diminutive man grunted. “I’d like it stated for the record that I don’t like this,” he growled.

“Noted,” Winston the gorilla said shortly. “McCree, get him—it—in hand. We have a lot of work we need to do in a short amount of time.” turning, he walked out of the brig. Most of the Overwatch agents followed, save for the one-eyed woman with the rifle.

Inexplicably it wanted to thank her, but drones did no such thing. But it didn’t dare look away. Her golden eyes—eye, singular—were just as wild and fierce as Widowmaker’s. It had stared her down before and it had seen others who had looked away and proved themselves to be weaker. It would not look away from this woman.

“First things first,” she said briskly. “You need food and water—both of you. Just the other day you, Cyberninja, were very sick. You haven’t been eating very well, which we will need to change. And you—”

“Ana please,” its handler began.

She huffed, turning her unnerving golden gaze to its handler. “Oh, don’t you ‘_Ana please_’ me,” she said tartly. “You want to kill yourself? Fine, that’s your right, but don’t you waste away while it—” she jerked her chin at Cyberninja, “—needs you here. It has no relationship with anyone on the base except for you; it trusts no one but you, obeys no one but you. What would happen if you were to waste away now?”

She turned back to Cyberninja. “You need to eat—or fuel, whatever term you wish to use. Perhaps you might not realize it, but you’re going to faint and I am in no mood to try and drag you both—literally—to the mess hall.”

“Come on,” its handler said with a gusty sigh. “We may as well go. And she’s right—you look like you’re about to keel over at any moment.”

Bemused, it followed the woman—Ana—and its handler down the blood-soaked hall and out of the brig. It vaguely recognized the halls, having run this way during Talon’s attack. Soon it recognized the hallways as the ones that led past its quarters.

Its handler and Ana took it down another set of hallways that led to a large set of double doors. “Overwatch used to be much larger,” its handler explained to Cyberninja. “This is the main mess hall for this base.”

They led Cyberninja through the large doors to one of the long benches of seats. Most were folded up, lining the walls like enormous tiles, or the teeth of some kind of giant human. Two benches were cleaned and laid out in the enormous space and Cyberninja thought that they looked terribly lonely.

It thought about the ring that its handler gave it.

It thought about the blue lights that had exploded when it fired its gun.

“I’ll get you something,” Ana told them both. “Sit.”

Its handler nodded to Cyberninja and it obeyed. As soon as it sat on the bench, it realized just how low on power and fuel it was.

“I’ll be back,” Ana said and ducked into another set of double doors.

Its handler looked at it. “You must have questions.”

“It is not meant to ask questions,” it said automatically.

“We both know that you’re not operating at your full programming,” its handler told it kindly. He seemed to be as exhausted as Cyberninja felt. “What you said to me in the brig alone proves that. I will not report you, but these people…” he gestured around them, likely meaning to encompass the Overwatch base. “They mean well. They want to help you.”

It considered that. “You…implied that it…is your husband. Or was. It is not.”

“You were him,” its handler said after a length pause. His voice cracked and he cleared his throat before continuing. “Perhaps you could become him again, but…no. You are not Hanzo.”

For a long moment it processed that. “Are all Dolls…like me?”

“Widowmaker,” its handler said and it nodded in recognition. “She was once the wife of an Overwatch agent. Amélie Lacroix, the wife of Gerard Lacroix. She was a ballet dancer; she was human once. Talon kidnapped her and turned her into a Doll; maybe she was the first Doll, maybe not. But they ordered her to kill her husband. Ana?” he tapped the skin beneath one of his eyes, the one on Ana that was missing. “Widowmaker shot her. Through the scope.”

It processed that. “Sigma?” it asked.

“Siebren de Kuiper,” its handler said. “Excuse me, Dr. Siebren de Kuiper. Pretty sure I pronounced it correctly. Brilliant scientist—I think he was an astrophysicist. He was studying…I don’t know, something big. I think it had something to do with gravity.”

It remembered Sigma, how he floated above the ground, his head and shoulders slumped forward as if hung by a string between his shoulder struts. It remembered seeing him in battle, in simulations; the swirling nothingness in his hands.

“He had a lab accident,” its handler continued. “I’m not sure of the specifics, but I think he was in a coma or at least very severely injured. That’s when Talon took him.”

“There were other Dolls,” it said.

“There are,” its handler agreed. “Very few survive the procedure and even fewer continue to function. In some ways, the three of you were extremely fortunate to live. I’m not sure if it’s a good thing, though.”

It said nothing for a moment, processing it. “It…is not Hanzo,” it said. “But…” it held up its hands, looked at the jagged crescent scar. How many times had it looked at its dermal plating and had not seen it? But now that it had, it couldn’t ignore it. “It has his body, or at least its dermal plating. It has his face and…”

“You have his memories,” its handler said, sounding choked. “At least, some of them.”

“It…was supposed to have its memories purged.”

Its handler shrugged. “You still have organic memories,” he told it gently. “Much of your…processing was likely forgotten. The human brain doesn’t like to remember pain or traumatic events, so that likely purged a decent portion from your…beginnings as Cyberninja. As for the rest…” he shrugged. “I’m no scientist. But I know that the nanites in your system and the probes they hooked you up to did something to the memory centers of your brain. Something about changing the way that short-term memories are transferred to long-term memories. Honestly, it all went over my head and it wasn’t deemed…necessary for me to know that.”

The doors opened and Ana returned with a large tray. She set down a bowl of broth in front of Cyberninja and a bowl of something…else in front of its handler. Then she walked back through the doors, returning a moment later with a pitcher and three cups pinched in her fingers.

Looking at the bowl, it realized that it wasn’t quite broth, looked thicker and opaquer than its usual fare here.

“Congee,” Ana said. “Or…at least rice in broth. There is some tofu in there as well. I don’t want to risk you getting sick again, but you need to get protein in you. Right now, we can’t connect you to an IV again.”

None of those words meant anything to it. “Eat it slowly,” its handler advised, mixing together whatever was in his bowl. “But at least drink the broth.”

It obeyed. Rice had been one of the reasons that its tank had purged itself, and it didn’t want to repeat the experience.

The main doors opened and people walked in. “I put the leftover stew on the stove,” Ana told Reinhardt and Agent Song. For a long moment, Agent Song looked back and forth between Cyberninja and its handler. Then she followed Reinhardt through the other set of doors.

When Reinhardt came back, holding an enormous bowl in his enormous hands, he sat next to Cyberninja. “Lots of damage,” he said gruffly. “Lots of bodies. Winston’s decided that we need to move sooner than later.”

“The techies are disconnecting Athena,” Agent Song said as she walked to the table. After a moment of hesitation, she sat next to Ana, the furthest she could get from Cyberninja and its handler. “Everyone else is working on salvaging all of the supplies that we can get.”

“Bastion must be sad,” it said before it could stop itself.

“I didn’t know you could speak,” Agent Song blurted.

It hesitated and Reinhardt grunted. “With an attitude like that, you’ll convince him it’s best to keep quiet.” He turned his head to Cyberninja and when he had to turn almost all the way to face it, it realized that he was missing an eye.

He was missing an eye _on the side that was closest to Cyberninja_.

“Bastion is upset,” Reinhardt agreed and then made a face. “Or at least, I’m pretty sure they are. I don’t blame them; they have to either uproot all of their plants or leave them to die.”

It returned to eating its broth and said nothing.

“I’m not sure that we can afford to leave so much behind, even if they’re plants,” Ana said coolly. “They’re valuable resources for a team that has a tight budget. We need those plants.” Her good eye seemed to shine with mirth that was hiding from her expression. “Cyberninja, would you like to help Bastion with their plants?”

Surprised to be addressed, it looked up at her.

“It would probably be a good idea,” its handler agreed. “If you want to. You can choose, you know.”

“It is not meant to choose,” it said.

Its handler gave it a crooked grin. “Then I order you to. That’s an important job and it’s less likely that you’ll hurt yourself too badly by doing that.”

They lapsed into silence for a while. Cyberninja fueled itself carefully. It decided that it didn’t like the soft white cubes that occasionally bobbed to the surface in its broth but Ana told it to consume it, so it did.

Never mind that she didn’t have authority over it. But she at least seemed…reasonable. It didn’t mind obeying her.

The doors opened again as Reinhardt and Agent Song were getting ready to leave. Zarya stomped in and dropped her hip weapon with a heavy sigh. She patted Cyberninja’s shoulder before walking to the other set of doors to get food.

When she came back, she was also carrying an enormous bowl and she sat down heavily in the seat that Reinhardt had vacated. “How are you feeling?” she asked. Her voice was rough and crackly.

“It is functional,” it told her and she barked a rough laugh. She ate quietly, spooning her meal into her mouth with a tired sigh.

“I’ll pack a thermos for you,” Ana told Cyberninja as it finished the last of the broth and rice in its bowl. “For now, we want to keep that in your stomach and warm it up to having food. But you need your strength so in…we’ll say two hours, you should eat again. I will let Bastion know.” She squinted her eye at its handler. “You too. You’re too skinny.”

Its handler sighed. “Ana…”

“You’re too old to look like the twink you were in Blackwatch,” Ana continued severely and Zarya choked on her meal. When she cleared her throat, she continued to wheeze in a laugh. “You two stay here. I’ll be back.”

Before either of them could stop her (not that Cyberninja would have tried), she whisked away their bowls and walked back into the kitchen. Or, Cyberninja assumed it was a kitchen. Given that people were getting food there, it seemed likely.

Ana returned with two thermoses tucked under one arm. “Come on,” she told Cyberninja and its handler brusquely. “We have work to do.”

Zarya waved and Cyberninja hesitantly returned the gesture before following Ana out into the main area of the base. It saw Zarya smile and something, some kind of weight that it didn’t know that it was carrying, lifted.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know what you think! I love hearing from you all. All of your reactions and thoughts help to inspire me to write more. 
> 
> Feel free to come and find me on Twitter at [dracoduceus](https://twitter.com/dracoduceus). I try to post updates and the occasional blurb about how I hurt myself <strike>like a dumbass</strike>. 
> 
> Look forward to hearing from you! Thank you for sticking around for this long!
> 
> ~DC


	10. Disaggregation: 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It doesn't like to admit it, but it is frustrated that so many people want it to be someone else.

Cyberninja sat back on its legs and inspected the shrubs. Across the garden, Bastion was doing some kind of finicky work with grids made of lightweight wood, twine, and wire. Ana joked that they didn’t trust it with these “trellises” or the delicate plants that climbed them, and frankly it thought that they were justified.

Likely seeing that it was not bent to its task, Bastion asked how it was, if it needed help or a break. It whistled back ‘all is well’ and Bastion chuckled.

Across the garden, Ana sat back on her lawn chair and sipped her tea. She was there to supervise, she had explained with an amused curl of her lips. And she was too old to be on her knees for quite so long. It had translated Bastion’s comment that she was surely not that old if she could still out-shoot everyone on base even if her other eye had been plucked out, and she had seemed pleased with the praise.

“Come and drink some water,” she said in that peculiar way of hers. It was half order and half request and it felt compelled to obey even if she wasn’t its handler, even if its obedience programming had degraded enough that it wasn’t even uncomfortable with disobeying Dr. Ziegler or its handler.

Not that it would, not directly; it still trusted its handler more than anything. Perhaps it was the leftover personality from Hanzo, what had escaped being scrubbed clean by the Dollhouse technicians, by Medusa and the odd-eyed woman’s meddling.

It pushed itself to its feet, taking a moment to brush off the dirt that clung to its knee struts. Taking an extra moment to stretch—they were stiff from resting its weight on them—it inspected the seams and decided that they would need to be cleaned.

Would Overwatch permit it to wear different clothing when it was in the garden? It wasn’t sure if it should ask—if it could.

Seeing Ana pouring it a glass of water, it ignored thoughts of uniforms and made its way over to her.

“You seem to enjoy gardening,” she said and gestured imperiously to the glass. It obeyed the wordless order and drank. “Sit,” she added. “I have broth for you, and we will try some rice again.”

It obeyed, saying nothing about its…apprehension about that. Rice.

It remembered too well how it had felt to consume it—and how it had felt when its tank purged. Of course, it said none of this to Ana, who looked at it as if she had plucked these thoughts from its processor.

“It’s not much,” she told it in what could almost be a gentle tone.

(It had long since learned that while she was understanding and prone to bouts of kindness, she wasn’t a very “gentle” or “reassuring” person. Not that it required such things, but it wondered how Overwatch reacted to her blunt manner.)

“But I want you to eat what I brought,” she continued, her golden eye piercing. “You need to keep up your strength and get your stomach—or whatever you call it—used to solid foods. Unfortunately, it’s a necessary evil at the moment.”

It drank the water without commenting and Ana pulled out a small container of rice and a larger one of broth. True to her word, it truly wasn’t a large amount, only a few bites. It finished this first and washed it down with the broth and tried to forget how the grains stuck to its dental structures and the insides of its mouth.

Bastion spun around and seemed relieved to find it sitting with Ana. They asked again if Cyberninja was alright, or if it just needed a break. It whistled back ‘all is well’ once more and Bastion scolded that if it needs breaks, then it should take them. They were worried for it, and it needs to stay strong, especially since it had been so sick lately.

“What did they say?” Ana asked when Bastion returned to fiddling with the trellises.

“They told it that it must take care of itself,” it told her. “And asked if it was alright.”

Ana hummed. “What did you whistle? Did it mean something?”

“All is well.”

She hummed again. “Will you teach me?” she smiled at its confusion. “Or something simple. Maybe hello. I’ve never been good at whistling.”

It whistled a basic hello and saw Bastion turn their head toward them. Seemingly guessing what they were doing, they chuckled and returned to their work.

“Again?” Ana asked, her eye closed as she concentrated on the sound. It whistled the greeting three times before she tried it. Bastion laughed. They wondered out loud if anyone else wanted to learn—it would be entertaining to listen to.

She squinted at them and then at Cyberninja. “What did they say?” she asked.

“They are surprised that you want to learn,” it said, only lying a little. “They wonder if more people are willing to learn.”

Giving it a look that told it just how much she didn’t believe it, she whistled again. This time it was almost passable. “Was there a roll at the beginning?”

It whistled ‘hello’ again. “No,” it told her. “You would say something else. It would not make sense.”

She shook her head. “Okay,” she said and tried the whistle again. The sound cut off about halfway through and she made a face. “It will take practice,” she said. “Will you say ‘all is well’ again?”

Cyberninja obeyed and then repeated it twice more.

Her eyes narrowed. Despite her issue with saying something as simple as ‘hello’, she seemed to have an easier time saying ‘all is well’. It told her so and she laughed.

“I would appreciate it if you would teach me more,” she said. “Though I suppose omnic language is difficult for the human vocal cords.”

Would she tell it that it was human too? Its good humor faded, and it was amazed that it had been…pleased. No, content.

As if plucking these thoughts from its processor, she snorted and sipped her tea. “I won’t presume to tell you what to think,” she told it rather sharply. “But will you deny that you have human components? Or that your design was based on the human body?”

It considered that, having never truly considered such things—or at least, it had not put such things into words. Once it had been human, it supposed—it had discussed such things with its handler.

Once, it had been its handler’s husband. Had been an Overwatch agent.

Had been human.

Now it wasn’t. Perhaps it had human parts—at least some of them, it amended, thinking of its left arm, its armored legs—but it wasn’t human. There was something about it that disqualified it from that category.

“No,” it said at last. “Its handler said that it was human once.”

Ana hummed, seemingly mollified for the moment. “Why do you do that?” she wanted to know. “Why do you call him your handler and not by his name?”

It was surprised that she had asked. “He is its handler,” it said hesitantly, unsure of how to answer.

“He is,” Ana agreed and something in her tone made it relax slightly. “I am just curious. You call us by name, don’t you?”

“Whatever is logged in its memory banks,” it corrected. “Dr. Ziegler was introduced by that name and it has not received permission to call it anything else. Zarya gave it permission to call her by that name instead of her full name and title.”

Ana hummed. “And if you knew my full name and title?”

“It would correct your designation in its memory banks,” it assured her.

She hummed again, taking a sip of her tea. “I don’t have much of a title anymore,” she told it. “Being dead will do that to you. My full name is Ana Amari—do you recognize it?”

“It does.” It could not say how it knew, though.

“I have other names,” Ana told it. “I have been called The Shrike.” It recognized that name but didn’t interrupt to say so. She nodded at it. “You may call me whichever of those names you _prefer_ to call me.’

It didn’t miss the pointed emphasis. “Would you be Mrs. Amari?”

“I’m not married,” Ana immediately corrected, though it saw her fiddling with a wedding band on her finger.

It didn’t ask, even though it really wanted to. Turning, it looked out at the garden. The sun felt nice on its dermal plating, though the air felt different here. It couldn’t smell the sea or hear the crashing of the waves and it found that it didn’t mind that.

“It…would like to call you Ana,” it said hesitantly.

“Then you may call me Ana,” she told it as if that was that.

They both fell into an expectant kind of silence when across the courtyard, the door opened. The omnic called Genji looked around and froze when he saw the both of them.

“Has he been bothering you?” Ana asked in an undertone, something strange in her voice. “Genji?”

“It is not bothered.” It was only half-truthful. The omnic Genji made it very…uncomfortable. It didn’t like the way that he moved, the way he spoke.

Ana hummed. “Somehow I don’t believe you.” They watched the omnic stomp over to them. “He was Hanzo’s brother,” Ana added in an undertone. “Seeing you, he only thinks of Hanzo.”

“It is not Hanzo,” it pointed out though it knew that Ana didn’t need the reminder. At the same time, it filed away that information, though it didn’t understand how an omnic could be the brother of a human.

“You aren’t,” she agreed with a heavy sigh. “But that is a truth that he refuses to believe.”

The omnic’s visor—blue today, to match the blue lights on his armor—swung to Ana and then back to Cyberninja. “Good morning Ana, Hanzo,” he said.

“Good morning, Genji,” Ana replied and Cyberninja noted that her voice was different when she spoke to Genji. It was more clipped, more like the rank she must have had before she died.

And it desperately wanted to know what had happened, how she was still there. Was she like Cyberninja? Had she been a failed Doll? She had the same eye color as Widowmaker, though it knew that that was no distinction, no true way of identifying a Doll. It had red eyes, after all—Widowmaker’s was golden, and Sigma’s was pale blue.

“What are you doing out here, Hanzo?” Genji asked it.

It chose not to answer, finishing off the last of the broth in its bowl. “Give that to me,” Ana told it briskly. “You had better get back to your gardening or Bastion will become worried.”

“Yes, Ana,” it said obediently, giving the bowl to her and standing. Genji didn’t move back as it stood, so they stood uncomfortably close to each other.

“Why are you gardening?” Genji asked it. “You hate it.”

_Perhaps_ Hanzo_ didn’t like it_, it wanted to say but didn’t. But it was not Hanzo.

“It is assisting with the community garden,” it said instead. “It is not trusted enough to assist with supplies.”

Genji huffed, following in its shadow as it walked back to where it had been working. “You’re doing it wrong,” he said as it picked up its tools. “Why are you putting them in a straight line?”

“It was decided to have them line the fence,” it told the omnic, already becoming annoyed.

It didn’t like the feeling. With anger, it burned; with fear, it froze. Annoyance was like being poked and poked and poked. It was not a sensation that it could easily ignore.

“Why?” Genji demanded.

“It is not privy to that knowledge.” To hide its frustration, it began digging into the soil.

Bastion had been concerned that the soil and altitude would not be good for the plants. It could feel the difference, though it meant little to it: here the dirt was dry and felt…brittle. At the previous base it had felt softer, and the grass had been springier.

It dug its trowel—for that was what Bastion had called the little shovel-tool—into the dirt. The sun felt nice on the back of its neck strut but Genji moved so that it knelt in his shadow.

“You used to meditate in those,” Genji pressed. “You had planted them in a circle and would sit in the middle.”

Cyberninja continued to dig. “It has done no such thing,” it said, forcing itself to keep its voice neutral. “It was only recently allowed outside.”

“No,” Genji said, sounding frustrated. “You did in the past.”

“It was only recently allowed outside,” it repeated. “Even with Talon it was not allowed outside unless it was on a mission.”

It continued to dig. When it thought that the hole was large enough to accommodate the plant and its roots, it used the watering can beside it to wet the brittle soil. The dirt turned from bright red to dark brown.

As Bastion had taught it, it watched the way that the soil thirstily drank the water, waited until it had absorbed into the ground, and poured more water again. Then it gently eased the plant in place.

Bastion had given it a bag of dark soil which it used to fill the hole around the roots. Unlike the last shrub that it had planted, this one began listing to the side and it secured it in place with a simple wooden stake and a piece of cotton tied loosely around the central trunk.

Then it watered the plant and the soil around it, watching the water disappear into the ground.

Behind it, Genji muttered to himself in a language it didn’t recognize. “When you were with Overwatch,” he said testily, and a part of it was pleased that it had annoyed him so much.

“It was never with Overwatch,” it said truthfully. _Hanzo _was, perhaps, but it was not Hanzo.

“Genji, leave it alone,” Ana called sharply.

Genji hissed and again it wondered how an omnic might be the brother of someone that had been human. “He is my brother,” he said sharply.

“It is not,” Cyberninja corrected. Across the courtyard, Bastion wanted to know if they were okay; it whistled back that it wasn’t.

Immediately, Bastion came over and it knew that it was cruel to use Overwatch’s discomfort with Bastion to serve its own ends, but a peculiar itching was beneath its dermal plating. Genji backed up a few steps before stopping as if intending to stand his ground.

Bastion wondered what was wrong. They saw the crooked plant and wondered if that was what had distressed it. If it didn’t want to work with the gardenias—which, it remembered belatedly, had been what the shrubs were called—it could work with them as they cleared planted the rest of the crops that they had rescued from the previous base.

“It has one more gardenia to plant,” it told Bastion. “And then it will join you.”

Bastion looked back and forth between Cyberninja and Genji. They wondered if Cyberninja was distressed by Genji. Did it want Genji to leave? He was very pushy when he wanted something, and Bastion didn’t appreciate it.

A moment later, Ana stood with them as well. “Cyberninja,” she said authoritatively and it looked at her. Then it realized that she wasn’t talking to it, was only putting emphasis on its call sign to prove a point. “Is busy with the restoration efforts of the community garden. Will you join it or will you continue to impede its progress?”

“I would like to speak to my brother,” Genji said stiffly. “Now that he is not a Doll.”

“Healing takes time,” Ana told him. “And that is a wound that hasn’t been healed—and it may never be healed. Cyberninja is not Hanzo.”

Genji turned to her, aggression in his stance. Cyberninja stiffened, ready to intervene. Despite their differences in height and build—and the inherent difference in strength between an omnic and a human—it did not doubt that Ana could win that fight. That did not mean that it…wanted to see her injured.

“Not you too,” Genji complained. “What, do you think that he’s just some machine that wears Hanzo’s skin? No, this is my brother.”

“It is not human,” it corrected. “It is not Hanzo; it is not your brother.”

Genji spun to face it. “You are,” he insisted, his voice rising. “I saw the dragons. I know you’re in there.”

“Hanzo is dead,” it said, frustration rising enough to encourage it to speak. “It is not Hanzo, nor will it ever be Hanzo. Perhaps once it was but now it is…” it trailed off. “It is Cyberninja. It is a Doll.”

Genji seemed surprised by the outburst. Just as it was beginning to feel doubt its decision to speak, Ana whistled ‘all is well’. Bastion patted its shoulder and suggested that it help them with the rest of the crops—let Ana deal with Genji.

It was too happy to oblige, walking quickly after Bastion’s stomping steps.

* * *

It had dinner with Zarya and Jean-Baptiste Augustin in the medical ward. Dr. Ziegler pursed her lips and left when she saw it walk in the door.

“She is uncomfortable around it,” it observed and Zarya shrugged.

“She wants something that cannot happen,” she said with surprising gentility, despite her dismissive behavior.

It helped her to set up a table for them to eat while Jean-Baptiste Augustin dragged over chairs so they could sit while they ate. Jean-Baptiste Augustin looked at Cyberninja, clicked his tongue disapprovingly, and disappeared into the room that was to be his office. He came back with a bottle of bluish gel.

“You got sunburned,” he told Cyberninja. “May I apply ointment to your dermal plating?” it agreed and held still while he smeared the gel over its face. “Who wants what that can’t happen? Genji?”

Zarya grunted. “Angela,” she said.

“Ah,” Jean-Baptiste Augustin said, voice knowing. “Don’t take it to heart, Cyberninja,” he said gently.

“It is not…” it struggled for the words to describe how it felt, a novel thing. Its handler had asked it to and it tried, but sometimes it was difficult. “It understands,” it said slowly. “It is not…upset.”

Zarya and Jean-Baptiste Augustin traded glances. “She and Genji are, perhaps, the two most in denial about your…nature,” Jean-Baptiste Augustin said carefully. “Both for different reasons. They are in the wrong and don’t want to be reminded of it. Mercy means well, but…” he shrugged.

“She is the prodigy,” Zarya said. “She has always been told that she is perfect, that she is an angel and a miracle-worker. This—” she gestured to Cyberninja and then the rest of them to encompass the entire situation, “—is beyond her. She, whether she intends to or not, thinks that it can be fixed with a wave of her hand. There is nothing wrong with idealism and nothing wrong with…” she hummed thoughtfully, muttered to herself in her native tongue.

“Being optimistic?” Jean-Baptiste Augustin suggested dryly.

Zarya grunted. “Exactly,” she said. “But sometimes she forgets that she’s just as mortal as the rest of us.”

“It feels so weird to have to wait so long for healing,” Jean-Baptiste Augustin said. “These days, a wave of her wand, the application of biotics or nanites, and a wound is healed. It is so much harder to kill anyone.” His expression darkened. “At least, anyone with money.”

Briskly, Zarya began moving the food to the table. It joined her, setting out plates. There were four sets and it wondered if its handler would be joining them. At the moment, it was too curious to hear what they would say to ask.

“Wounds of the mind aren’t like wounds of the flesh,” Jean-Baptiste Augustin noted. “They take their own time to heal. Your…wounds are something that she cannot treat and it frustrates her. Doesn’t excuse her, but that’s where the problem lies. Whether intentional or not, she’s just…so frustrated that she cannot help you that she’s turned everything else off.”

It considered those words. “It can…understand that it must be frustrating,” it conceded. “But it is not Hanzo.”

Zarya sighed. “No,” she said, sounding reluctant to even admit as much. “You’re not—and that’s the most difficult truth for anyone to swallow. You look like him but nothing about you…” her jaws snapped shut and she turned her head away.

It wondered what kind of relationship she had with Hanzo. They must be very good friends of some kind for her to react that way. It thought that her eyelashes seemed damp and it politely ignored what she might—and probably did—see as weakness.

“You look like him,” Jean-Baptiste Augustin said more gently as he poured out Cyberninja’s broth. “You sound like him, or at least your voice does. But it’s like someone else is at the controls, or you’re some kind of puppet.”

“A Doll,” Cyberninja murmured despite itself.

He nodded. “A Doll,” he agreed, his lips twisting. “Something had been carved out of you, but not completely. It may grow back, it may slowly return, but it will never be the same as it was—you will never be Hanzo again, not completely.”

It wasn’t upset by this, but it could see how others might be…uncomfortable by this. How it may make them distressed.

“She’s not used to failing,” Jean-Baptiste Augustin said as he sat with a heavy sigh. “And in this, this wound that is not physical, it feels to her that she is failing. She can bring people back from the dead, so why can’t she bring back Hanzo?”

Zarya tapped her forehead, her chest, then each shoulder with two fingers, made a face, and began eating. Cyberninja eased itself into the chair next to her—where its bowl was—and sipped the glass of water first.

“How are you feeling?” Jean-Baptiste Augustin asked as he sat across from it. “You got a little sunburnt—do you understand what I mean when I say that?”

“It understands the concept of sunburn,” it said, unable to keep the dry tone from its voice.

Jean-Baptiste Augustin laughed. “I really set myself up for that one,” he said apologetically. “I’ll find you some sunscreen—the next time you help Bastion in the gardens, please be sure to put some on. I’ll also send you back to your quarters with that gel. You’ll want it tomorrow.”

“Yes, Doctor,” it said obediently and resumed eating. It looked at the empty spot.

“McCree is supposed to be joining us,” Zarya said as if sensing its thoughts. Perhaps it simply was that obvious, given how often she and Ana seemed to know what it was thinking. “I’m not sure where he is, though.”

Jean-Baptiste Augustin hummed. “Where has he been all day? Not that I was wandering around much—Angela and I spent the whole day in Medical getting it cleaned up.”

“He was speaking with Winston,” Zarya said around a mouthful of something. Seeing Cyberninja looking, she cut a small piece and put it on its napkin. “A small piece won’t hurt,” she said when Jean-Baptiste Augustin frowned disapprovingly at her. “And you can at least get a taste.”

It hesitated and scooped it up with its spoon. In truth, it didn’t look very appetizing: it was pale and appeared stringy from where Zarya cut a piece.

“It’s not the best I’ve had,” Zarya said dryly. “But it’s food and it serves its purpose. It needs spice though—but it’s a good thing that Lena cooked it instead of anyone else. The spice probably would make you sick.”

Jean-Baptiste Augustin snorted. “That’s certainly true.” At his encouraging nod, Cyberninja put the piece in its mouth.

It was…it tasted like nothing and something about it made its mouth feel dry. After it chewed, it drank deeply from its glass of water.

“Yeah,” Zarya said sympathetically. “When you can handle more foods, I’ll show you what cooking can be. We can introduce you to all kinds of foods—almost everyone here can cook.” Then she made a face. “If you want to, of course. I assume it will take you some time to reach that stage, though.”

It nodded though it didn’t fully understand what she meant. Jean-Baptiste Augustin poured it more broth.

“One step at a time,” he said soothingly as the door to Medical opened and its handler walked in, followed by the gorilla Winston. “Hello McCree, Winston.”

The gorilla peered closely at Hanzo and walked closer. It didn’t dare look away in case it was a sign of weakness—and Winston did seem very intense in his golden-eyed stare. He seemed too intelligent for a gorilla as well, not surprising given that he had spoken in its presence. From the way he carried himself and the way it had authorized its handler’s release, he was in charge.

“Hello, Cyberninja,” Winston said, peering intently at it. “How are you today?”

It looked at its handler who nodded encouragingly, sitting down at the table with a tired sigh. “It is functional,” it said. Next to it, Zarya choked and coughed.

“Something wrong, Agent Zaryanova?” Winston asked dryly.

“Lena’s cooking sucks,” Zarya said, her voice dry. “Excuse me,” she added, reaching for her glass of water and draining it.

Winston snorted and looked back at Cyberninja. “At some point, I would like to debrief with you as well,” he said. “I would like to know more about the attack from your perspective. When is a good time for you?”

Unsure, it looked at its handler. Zarya was making him a plate of food and he made a face when he saw what it was. It wondered what joke it was missing.

As if sensing its eyes, its handler looked up. He flashed it a smile. “Where were you going after dinner, Cyberninja?”

It considered the question and whether someone had told it to be anywhere. “It was going to go back to its quarters,” it said. “It was not ordered anywhere.”

“Then you should go and speak with Winston,” its handler said and hesitated. “Do you want someone to go with you?”

“I can handle myself,” Winston said dryly.

Its handler looked at the gorilla out of the corner of his eyes. “I wasn’t talking to you, big guy,” he said. “Cyberninja?”

“I will go with you,” Zarya said. “If you have no objections?” she gave it an encouraging smile and gave Winston a challenging stare.

The gorilla sighed and fiddled with his rectangular glasses. “Very well,” he grumbled. “I will see you in…an hour? Two?”

“Two,” Zarya said firmly. “We will see you then.” Grunting, Winston left and its handler sighed. “Don’t let him bully you,” she told him sternly.

Its handler shook his head. “He has every right to.”

“No, he doesn’t,” Jean-Baptiste Augustin said, to its surprise. “Suspicious, yes—but he should know better than to bully you. If he wishes for this…adventure to continue, he needs to learn a few lessons and this is one of them.” The doctor jabbed a finger at its handler’s plate. “Now, eat. And I would like to do a quick scan of you, if you don’t mind—just to make sure that you’re healthy. You look too thin.”

Zarya asked it about the garden and it reported about the gardenias it had planted, had talked about the beans that Bastion had replanted and the tiny roses that they had been breeding as a side project. She asked questions and it told her about the vegetables and tomatoes, how even Ana joined in, shaded beneath a large sun hat.

When it came time to leave, it realized that it was calm.

Content.

Its handler smiled at it as it stood to leave with Zarya and despite its worry, despite the frustrations of its day, it smiled back at him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know your thoughts! I love hearing from you!
> 
> You can also find me on Twitter at [Dracoduceus](https://twitter.com/dracoduceus) where I occasionally post story updates. 
> 
> ~DC


	11. Disaggregation: 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the first time, it sees Hanzo.

“I need to stop by my quarters first,” Zarya told Cyberninja. “I’ll get my sewing—I’m not technically a part of the meeting so I can get away with it.”

That meant little to it but it followed her down the halls. They did get lost, Zarya not being used to the layout of the base, before finding the right place. A woman stood waiting for them outside of the open door. Cyberninja recognized her from one of the times it had woken up in Medical—she had been marking up a stack of papers in red pen.

“Did you get lost?” the woman asked Zarya, not taking her eyes off of Cyberninja.

Zarya shrugged. “You know we did,” she said. “I’m just stopping by to get my sewing stuff—I volunteered to sit in on Cyberninja’s debrief with Winston.”

The woman looked away to frown at Zarya. “I thought we were going to have a movie night.”

A guilty look crossed Zarya’s face. “Oh no. I’m so sorry.”

“You have a lot on your mind,” the woman said, her eyes returning to Cyberninja. She frowned at Cyberninja, clearly blaming it for Zarya forgetting their plans. “We can reschedule.”

It considered pointing out to Zarya that it did not _need_ someone to sit in with it while speaking to Winston but it was not its place to get involved.

Zarya looked torn. “I’m sorry.”

“No,” the woman said tightly. “It’s fine.” She ducked into the room, which she evidently shared with Zarya.

Cyberninja remained where it was as Zarya glanced at it. “A moment, please,” she murmured, ducking into the room as well. The door closed behind her. It could hear their voices murmuring behind the closed door but unlike the other base, it couldn’t quite hear enough to tell what was being said.

“We’ve come to a compromise,” Zarya told Cyberninja apologetically as she came out of the room, a large drawstring bag in her hand. She had evidently dressed down as well, wearing a comfortable shirt and shorts that showed off her muscular legs and arms. “Which might not be necessary, as I’m not certain that the entertainment areas are up and running just yet.”

They began walking down the halls and Cyberninja politely did not mention the conversation—and likely argument—that Zarya and Mei must have had behind the doors of their shared room.

“That is Mei—do you remember her?” Zarya asked abruptly.

“Climatologist Dr. Zhou Mei-Ling,” Cyberninja said immediately. Then it hesitated. “It remembers the name.”

Zarya hummed. “Well, now you have a face to put to the name. She and I share a room; the team likes to joke that we match so well in certain clichés. The Nerd and the Jock.” It didn’t understand but decided against telling Zarya this. “They also joke that they need to keep us cold-weather people isolated from the sane people,” she added with a booming laugh.

They walked in silence down the halls until Zarya came to a pair of enormous doors. She turned to face Cyberninja. “Are you ready?” she asked seriously, her scarred face concerned.

“It does not understand,” it admitted. “It is expected to debrief…is that not what this meeting is to be about?”

Zarya gave it a strange look and then shook her head. “I’m sorry,” she said, though it couldn’t understand why. “I’m asking if you are…prepared. Winston does not quite trust you but he at least seems to have accepted your presence here. He wants to and needs to know what happened from your perspective—I think we both understand that. However…he will want to know your motivations. The reason I want to be here is that I’m not sure that he will understand—or accept—that you did it all because of your handler. That is why I am asking you if you are ready.”

It carefully considered that. “It does not need to be believed,” it said at last. “Though it…” it hesitated, trying to find the words. “…it appreciates your concern. It will tell the truth; it does not need to be believed.”

Zarya gave it a dubious look. “You might not feel hurt if you’re not believed,” she said at last. “But he needs to believe you.”

That made sense. Winston was apparently the base commander—that meant that its fate, and the fate of its handler, rested in his hands.

It nodded obediently. “It understands.” Zarya gave it a weak smile before opening the doors and leading it inside.

The room that they entered seemed to once be some kind of lab. Large pieces of equipment that it neither recognized nor could name the function of were stacked against the wall, the ceiling vaulted to accommodate their great height. I-beam scaffolding striped the ceiling with a crane and pulley system—since rusted and potentially unusable—hung overhead.

It wondered about the heavy rope netting and tire swings hanging from one side but decided that it didn’t need to know. Instead, it focused on Winston, who sat on a large tire as he typed on a keyboard that had been scaled up to fit his enormous fingers. On the table in front of him, a holographic map of the previous base was overlaid in a rainbow of colors, each labeled with a small symbol.

“Hello, Winston,” Zarya said loudly and the base commander visibly startled.

He grunted, adjusted his glasses, and peered at them. “Come in,” he said gruffly, gesturing to one of the other tires beside the display. “Cyberninja, you may sit there. Zarya, I assume you brought something to occupy yourself?” Wordlessly, Zarya lifted her drawstring bag. Evidently, this was enough answer for Winston because he grunted again. “You can sit next to…it. Or you may find another place to sit.”

“Can I put things on the display?” Zarya asked, leading the way to the table.

“_You may_,” a female voice said, startling Cyberninja. It tensed. “_There is a clear area near the corner_.” A red square appeared on the table and on the overlay. “_This will not impede the map_.”

Zarya turned to Cyberninja. “You were not formally introduced to Athena,” she said, a note of apology in her voice. “She is the base AI. At the moment, she is confined to very limited areas but soon she will be a major component of our base’s defense.”

“_There is only so much that patrols and turrets can do_,” the female voice said and it noted that it seemed to come from everywhere in the room. Then it changed to a speaker near Cyberninja, as if someone stood near it. “_Humans are fallible; machines less so. It is a pleasure to formally meet your acquaintance. Is your preferred designation Cyberninja?_”

It glanced at Zarya who gave it a nod. “Affirmative,” it said stiffly.

“_Noted_,” Athena told it. “_And you prefer the pronouns it/its?_” It confirmed again. “_Your responses have been noted for future use._”

A part of it wanted to ask if she overrode the file for Hanzo or if she created a new one for Cyberninja. Did she recognize that Hanzo would never come back? Or did a part of her still try to cling to the idea that they were the same? Physically, biometrically, they may be the same or similar enough to confuse AI or other computers; was she able to realize that this was false?

It was not its place to ask so it didn’t and carefully moved to the area that Winston had gestured. “You may sit,” Winston told it impatiently.

Still, it hesitated. “You asked for its report,” it said.

“I did,” Winston agreed, his golden eyes narrowing at it. “Are you unaccustomed to sitting during a debrief?”

“It debriefs with its handler,” it told Winston. “Whenever its handler asks it. When it debriefs with anyone else, it is to stand.”

Winston grunted. “Then you do what you are most comfortable doing,” he said decisively. He gestured at the overlay. “Do you recognize the base?” he asked. It confirmed that it did. “Here is your room. Athena?”

The Overwatch logo appeared in one of the squares on the map. As it looked at the overlay, it saw other tokens personalized with little symbols in other colors.

“_My apologies, Cyberninja_,” Athena said. “_I logged you as a new entity. We do not currently a symbol for you and it did not seem appropriate to use Hanzo’s_.”

That answered its question. It wondered if it would be out of place for it to agree to use Hanzo’s temporarily, but in the end, it didn’t matter—the generic Overwatch logo would be sufficient.

Winston grunted. “I did not think about that. Thank you, Athena.” Zarya, setting out the strange cloth-and-hoop apparatus, smiled to herself. Cyberninja didn’t think that Winston noticed and it wondered who the smile was for. “Cyberninja, would you begin to retrace your steps the night of the attack? Please be as detailed as possible in your report.”

It obeyed, described how it powered on from the sound of a voice—not from the order itself. It described how it spoke with Medusa, how he had tried to gain power over it with the override code.

On the overlay, a black chip with the Talon symbol appeared next to the one that represented it. Seeing them together, it felt uncomfortable.

“Who is Medusa?” Winston asked.

“He is a technician and consultant in the Dollhouse Initiative,” Cyberninja told him. “His specialty is in covert operations.”

Winston made a curious noise. “How is he both in covert ops and a technician?”

“One can wear many hats,” Zarya muttered and Winston glared at her. She ignored him, her glasses perched on her nose as she looked down at the hoop in her hands.

“Medusa provides consultation to the scientists in the Dollhouse,” it said hesitantly. “It does not know what information he provides. Provided.”

Winston nodded. “Fair enough,” he grunted. “Continue.”

It explained how it walked out to Bastion, hoping that it remembered the way. As it spoke, the marker on the overlay moved, laying down a plain black line as it followed Cyberninja’s description.

It told them how Bastion murdered Medusa, how they destroyed the wireless chips that would have let Talon know of Cyberninja’s rogue programming. How they met Reinhardt and Zenyatta, how they found Zarya.

The chips moved. A rust-orange chip with a bird that looked like Ganymede met up with the chip that belonged to it; the chip with the Talon symbol was marked with a red X. Tracing their steps was mesmerizing if it focused on the movement of the chips. Its chip joined Bastion’s (the bird in the rust-colored circle) and then Zenyatta’s (a gold circle of eight orbs) and Reinhardt’s (a steel-grey circle around a recreation of his large war hammer). They traveled into the base through a door on the side and met up with a pink chip with what looked like a sunset with swirling circles—Zarya.

Cyberninja described the path it took, estimated how many it killed between it and its handler. When Winston asked, it pointed out that nobody had blindfolded it as they walked it down the halls and around the base so it could recognize the path to the kitchen, the brig, Medical, the garden, and its quarters.

Frowning, Winston grunted and typed a quick note in a shorthand that it didn’t recognize.

At Winston’s gesture, it continued, reporting how it tricked groups of Talon agents into coming into the open where it killed them and piled their bodies in an empty cell.

It described its fight with The Reaper and Widowmaker, how it dodged the sniper’s shots and how the terrible jaws in The Reaper’s chest crumpled its dominant arm.

Winston leaned forward. “There are a lot of things that I have questions about,” he said. “But right now, there is a very persistent question I have been hearing around the base and among the operatives. We saw the dragons.” He paused and seemed to gauge if that meant anything to Cyberninja. He seemed disappointed when he continued, “Do you still have access to them?”

It looked at Zarya, who was doing something to her project, her tongue held between her teeth as she concentrated. Hearing the pause, she looked up and met Cyberninja’s eyes. She looked back at Winston and then at Cyberninja.

“It does not understand,” it told Winston.

Winston grunted. “You summoned the dragons,” he repeated.

“That…does not mean anything to it.” That seemed to frustrate Winston.

“Cyberninja isn’t Hanzo,” Zarya said quietly. “He doesn’t understand what you mean.” To Cyberninja, she said, “Hanzo—and his brother Genji—have spirit dragons. They are a secret of the Shimada family. Hanzo used to summon a pair with his arrows and an incantation.”

“_I have a video of it, Cyberninja,_” Athena said and for a moment, the map of the base disappeared. It was replaced with an image of the man that was Hanzo.

This was the first time that it had seen him and it peered in interest at the image. He had a serious face, his hair pulled back by a golden ribbon.

_“Seigaiha,” its voice whispered. “It is called seigaiha, cowboy.”_

_“Fish scales,” its handler laughed back. “Fancy fish scales.”_

_The voice that was Hanzo’s said, “If that is so, then should it not be _dragon_ scales? I am a dragon, after all.”_

It found the same pattern in Hanzo’s pants, this time in black and gold. He had a tattoo of a serpent-creature that twined down his arm and danced among lightning and clouds. Cyberninja looked into Hanzo’s eyes and inexplicably felt relieved. They were brown, did not match its eyes at all.

At the same time, it felt…uncomfortable. There was something about this man that seemed familiar yet it knew that it and Hanzo were two separate beings. Whoever or whatever Hanzo had been had been scooped out to make way for Cyberninja.

Hanzo spoke soundlessly to someone out of view and it watched as he lifted his arms—one bared by the robe he wore, the other covered in a sleeve and a glove. He reached for an arrow, put it to the string of a bow held in his left hand, and pulled it back to his ear. And then…

And then, as Cyberninja watched, the tattoo on Hanzo’s arm seemed to peel itself away from his flesh. But that wasn’t quite right: the tattoo remained, black and blue and grey and gold ink embedded in flesh, but something else peeled itself away. Something that glowed electric blue.

Something like the blue lightning it had seen the night of the Talon attack.

It watched as the…thing—the thing that had a definite shape of a long serpentine body, had a jaw full of teeth and furious blue-white eyes and claws—twine and swirl around Hanzo’s arm. They connected, burrowed and writhed to the arrow on the string, and when Hanzo fired they exploded into the air.

Though it was only an image it could feel the crackle of lighting in the air, smell the ozone. Athena’s camera must have had errors, perhaps the charge in the air or the brilliance of the swirling creatures, because the feed pixelated and grew hazy.

The image collapsed and Cyberninja felt oddly bereft.

“It saw them,” it found itself saying. “During the attack on Talon.”

Winston leaned close. “You did. You summoned them.” He had a peculiar, intense look on his face as he leaned forward toward Cyberninja. “And only a Shimada can control the dragons.”

“It is not Hanzo,” it pointed out. Was Winston about to start that again?

“Do you deny that you were?” Winston asked, peering at Cyberninja.

It struggled with its frustration. “It is not a human; it is a Doll. It was created from Hanzo but it is not Hanzo.”

“Something in you still is,” Winston pressed.

“Leave it,” Zarya said without looking up. “You’re both right in your own way. Cyberninja may have been made from Hanzo’s body, but he’s not the same person, Winston. Whatever controls the dragons, Cyberninja still has—it doesn’t matter if you are Hanzo or not, you still have his bloodline and his legacy.”

It didn’t think that it liked that but it refrained from saying so. 

Winston huffed, grumbled, but gestured to the map. “Please continue, Cyberninja.”

“There is nothing more to say,” it admitted. “The Reaper fled and Zarya met with it and its handler in the brig.”

“The grenades were about to explode,” Zarya said without looking up from what she was doing. “I managed to shield him in time.”

Winston grunted again and made a few notes. “We’ve established who Medusa is,” he said and there was a long enough pause that Cyberninja wondered if he expected it to answer but then he continued. “Why did you not accept his override?”

“It chose not to.”

“Why did you choose not to?”

It frowned. “It does not understand the question.”

Winston peered at it, the frown on his face making him appear impatient. “You were given multiple overrides. Were they valid?” it confirmed that they were. “Then why did you not follow the override protocol?”

To answer would be to admit that it was far more broken than anyone expected. Not that they couldn’t guess that it was quite so broken, not that they weren’t very aware that it was not functioning as a Doll should, but it was afraid that the moment it admits to this fully that that is when they will strike.

“Winston,” Zarya said slowly, still not looking up from her project. “What is to happen to McCree?”

Winston seemed surprised to be asked. He snorted. “After hearing his testimony, I am inclined to welcome him back,” he admitted to Cyberninja’s surprise. “However, there is an issue of team cohesion. There are still people that don’t trust him and I cannot have the team broken like this.”

“So what will you do?” Zarya pressed. “Because your answer affects how Cyberninja will interact with you.” Seemingly surprised, Winston turned to Cyberninja. “He will defend his handler—you saw that, you saw the bodies during the attack. What do you think he will do if you say that he will be executed? Handed over for justice?”

Winston bared his teeth at Zarya. “Is that a threat?”

“It is a promise,” Zarya said. “One that you can’t seem to hear when it says it so I will tell you until you do. He will tear apart the world for his handler, can’t you see that? So if you abandon McCree…”

Winston huffed. “I cannot have infighting,” he said. “We are small enough as it is and still not officially supported. If our team is broken, then how can we stand against Talon?” he turned and looked at Cyberninja. “Tell me this if you can: did McCree commission you?”

“It was not given information on who commissioned it.”

“Was McCree your only handler?”

“There were three others before him,” it answered. “Each were killed.” It didn’t add that when its current handler was given that responsibility, it killed its previous handler. Though it didn’t have the words or the…feelings for it, the replay it still had brought it joy.

It didn’t like killing, but it made an exception for that handler.

“You have your answer, Winston,” Zarya said. It appeared that she was cleaning up her work. “Do you have questions on the events of that night?”

Winston grunted. “I will inform you both if I do,” he said archly. “But I do have a question about the future.” He pinned Hanzo with a golden-eyed stare and again it refused to look away lest he think it weaker. “If you were given another override, would you obey it? Is there anyone out there who will hold more sway over you?” 

It steadily met Winston’s golden eyes. “It will only obey those it chooses to obey,” it said at last, very aware that in doing so, it admitted just how broken it was. It leaned closer ever so slightly. “If it was given to it to choose, then it will choose its handler over anyone else. It will _always_ choose its handler.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed it! Let me know what you think! I do love hearing from you all. 
> 
> You can also find me on Twitter at [Dracoduceus](https://twitter.com/dracoduceus), where I try to post updates. I don't always succeed because I am rather forgetful, but I"m trying to stay on top of it. 
> 
> Thank you for making it this far and thank you for everyone that's left comments. I'm so happy to see that you're enjoying it and I love hearing about your thoughts and theories. 
> 
> ~DC


	12. Disaggregation: 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How is Overwatch different than Talon?

“You seem restless,” Zarya commented as they walked back to the residential area.

It wanted to pace, wanted to move; just walking beside and slightly behind her was not enough. Now it could feel the crackle of its charge—was this what Winston had called dragons? Was this another reminder that it would never be anything other than Cyberninja-in-Hanzo?

Not sure how to answer, it said nothing.

“Do you need something?” Zarya asked.

It needed to move, to run. It wasn’t used to this kind of inactivity; it didn’t like it.

Zarya stopped and turned to look at it. “I need to drop this off at my room,” she said, gesturing to the cloth bag in her hand. “And then…I think we should go to the gym. You look like you need to move.”

It said nothing, following her and standing aside as Zhou Mei-Ling scowled at it, clearly still upset with it. They found Reinhardt as Zarya led them to an area of the new base that Cyberninja had not yet visited.

“Zarya,” Reinhardt said warmly. He looked at Cyberninja and gave a less excited smile. “Hello, Cyberninja.” He made a face. “I’m sorry, it just feels weird to not call you ‘Hanzo’. But I’m sure you hear that a lot.”

There was no point in responding so it didn’t. Reinhardt didn’t seem too bothered by its silence though.

“Zarya,” he said. “I was wondering if you would like to spar with me later? I still find myself restless after the attack.”

“We were just headed to the gym,” Zarya told him. Cyberninja moved to walk behind them so that Reinhardt could walk beside Zarya. It was given a smile by the enormous ex-Crusader and a wink from his scarred, blind eye.

Despite itself, it was surprised, not only by his friendliness but also by the wink. The scar that marked his face was deep and wide, evidence of a terrible wound; it was surprised that he had any movement of the muscles in that area of the face.

“Are you up to sparring with me?” Reinhardt asked and after a brief pause, it realized that he was talking to it. “I know that you’re still building up your strength.”

It hesitated. “It does not spar, it only hurts.”

Reinhardt grunted, his friendly smile wavering. “I was thinking of showing him some of the warm ups that Hanzo taught us,” Zarya told Reinhardt. To Cyberninja, she said, “Hanzo used to teach us a series of movements called _kata_. He had used them as warmups since he was a child—if you’re not used to them, then they’re exhausting. Hopefully they will at least be helpful to clear your mind now.”

Another reminder that it will always be once-Hanzo. Zarya meant well and in truth it knew what she meant, but it was still…displeased.

It said nothing but somehow, despite having limited interactions with it, Reinhardt seemed to understand its silent frustration. “Perhaps that is not wise,” he said delicately as they walked into a large room.

Like most areas of this new base, it was dusty and rundown. Equipment was stacked in a corner, weights of all shapes and sizes in another. The mats laid out must have been salvaged from the old base because while worn, they looked cleaner and newer than the mats shoved against a forgotten wall.

“It’s not much,” Reinhardt said with a heavy sigh. “But for now, it’ll have to do.”

It considered the room. There were vaulted ceilings with exposed scaffolding (_what was with Overwatch and exposed beams?_ it wondered to itself, thinking of Winston’s lab). Dust and detritus from years of abandonment still covered the floors, despite a quick and halfhearted cleaning by the new Overwatch as they moved in.

As it looked around, it spotted movement in the rafters: blue lights that had been dimmed for stealth but not completely turned off, shiny blue-black armor.

“Cyberninja,” Zarya said and it turned to look at her. If she thought that it was odd that it was looking up, she showed no sign. Perhaps she knew that the omnic Genji was there as well. “What would you like to do? This is the base’s gym and if you are restless, then you can help to…cool down here. If you think that it will be helpful.”

It considered that. “Where is its handler?” it asked. Zarya and Reinhardt both looked surprised to be asked.

“Right here.” It turned and found its handler and Ana walking into the room. “Mei said that you were charged up?”

“I was going to see if he wanted to spar,” Reinhardt said.

Its handler shrugged. “That is his choice,” he agreed. “But as he may have mentioned…he doesn’t go easy.”

“He did say that,” Reinhardt agreed.

With nobody talking directly to it, it looked back up at Genji, unsurprised to find him still there, watching. It eyed the scaffolding, while its handler continued to speak to Reinhardt and Zarya.

Ana watched it and when it looked at her, she gave it an enigmatic smile. She nodded once and said, “Zarya, how did the meeting with Winston go?” Reinhardt, its handler, and Zarya all turned to her and it slipped away, climbing quickly and silently up the scaffolding as she had intended for it to do with her brief distraction.

_“Sometimes talks like this need to happen on your own terms,” Ana’s voice from Hanzo’s past whispered in its processor. “Sometimes it needs to be forced. Just my two cents, as the Americans are so fond of saying.”_

It walked across the beams toward Genji, who had stood to meet it. He appeared to be unarmed, but that meant little when throwing blades were fed through his arms into his knuckles.

“Brother,” Genji said and winced.

“It is not your brother,” Cyberninja corrected.

The vents on Genji’s shoulders hissed steam in frustration. “I need to believe that you are.”

“It is not,” Cyberninja told him. It did not tell him that it wasn’t sure how a human—or what was once human—could be brothers with an omnic. That was not its place. Instead, it said, “It may have once been Hanzo, but it is not any longer.”

Genji’s vents steamed again. “You can’t keep saying that,” he snapped. “Do you think that you are beyond healing?”

“That would depend on your definition of healing,” it said coolly. A part of it—perhaps one of those frustrating remnants of Hanzo—was amazed that it could speak so calmly with Genji. Another part of it was amazed that it would dare be so bold to stare into Genji’s blank faceplate, his blue visor, and say such things.

Genji stared at it for a long moment before reaching up to his faceplate. He fiddled with something and then it hissed and came apart in his hand.

A human face stared back; a lock of black hair streaked with silver peeked out from beneath his helm. “Look me in the eyes,” Genji challenged, his voice sounding different without the feedback of the mask. “I dare you to look at me and tell me that you don’t recognize me.”

It did, mostly out of curiosity. Everyone said that Genji was Hanzo’s brother, and thinking back to the image of Hanzo that Athena had played for it, it could see the resemblance. They could see it in the shape of their brows and the arch of their nose, though Hanzo’s nose—and its nose, it supposed—had clearly been broken and healed wrong so that the bridge was swollen. Genji’s eye color was difficult to tell in the dim light but it thought that it looked like a muddled brownish grey like the silt of a riverbank.

Genji and Hanzo could be brothers—were certainly related…but it was not Hanzo.

It was not Hanzo and never would be.

And it was tired of reminding everyone of this.

So it looked into Genji’s eyes as he challenged it to. “You are Hanzo’s brother,” it said. “But it is not Hanzo. Look into its eyes,” it added and blamed the charge that crackled in it, that began to rise like the tide, on the words that it threw back at Genji. “Are these Hanzo’s eyes?”

It watched Genji waver. “They are,” he lied.

“It is not Hanzo,” it told Genji. “Hanzo is dead and will never return.”

“You said that to me once,” Genji told it stubbornly. “You said that the Genji you once knew was dead. But I’m still here—and so are you, Hanzo.”

Irrationally it felt the cold fire of fury rising in it. “_It is not Hanzo_.” only when it heard its own voice echoing back at it did it realize that it had shouted. But its anger was a current that it could not escape, a rip current that dragged it along until it was released. “You ask for something that is impossible. It is not Hanzo and never will be.” It turned and began making its way to where it had climbed up.

“And yet you still have the same mannerisms,” Genji taunted. “You’re still a coward that runs away from his problems.”

Now it could feel the things that Winston had called the dragons. They crawled beneath its dermal plating; it could feel the catch of their scales, the way their claws dug into its internal components.

It remembered Zarya’s words. About the Shimada dragons, Hanzo’s bloodline.

That it still, quite against its will, carried Hanzo’s legacy.

“You are still Hanzo,” Genji goaded behind it. “Only a Shimada can control the dragons.”

It turned to look at him. The dragons swirled around it, crawled along its shoulder struts, twined around its neck. There were two of them, climbing in spirals around it.

_In balance._

“All that is left of Hanzo is a body and remnants of memory,” it told Genji. “It is no longer the man you once knew. Let him be at rest.”

As it turned to climb down the scaffolding, it felt the dragons disappear beneath its dermal plating again, as if they dove beneath a calm pond. For a moment it could feel the ripples of its movement before they settled and fell still.

“Are you okay?” its handler asked as it approached.

For a long moment it considered that question. It considered its handler.

Hanzo had been his husband, after all, and it certainly knew that its handler still loved Hanzo. Was it only kind to Cyberninja because it wore his face?

Perhaps he was—and it was surprised at how much that thought hurt. At the same time, there was something soft still in its handler’s face now. Surely, he had to have heard its outburst in the scaffolding.

But its handler looked concerned for it, still had that fond look in his eyes. It doubted that he saw it as an entity entirely separate from his beloved but for now it would believe that he did.

It was its handler, after all—it would trust him above all else.

And it had been telling the truth to Winston, earlier. Even if its handler only saw him as an extension of Hanzo, as Hanzo and as such believed that he could one day return, it would still choose him.

It would always choose its handler.

So, it looked into its handler’s eyes. “It is well,” it said and something soft bloomed in its chest cavity like a flower exposed to the sun when its handler smiled.

* * *

The next morning, it sat with the team as they ate. Zarya and Reinhardt were buffers between its handler and the rest of the team, who continued to give him poisonous looks.

“Here,” Zarya said gruffly, making a small plate of food for Cyberninja and pushing it across the table to it. “A few bites won’t kill him,” she grumbled when Jean-Baptiste Augustin clicked his tongue at her.

It looked down at the plate. Zarya had been telling the truth—it was only a few bites of food—but still it was cautious.

“He can try some of this,” the woman with the blue device strapped to her chest said. Speared on her fork was a piece of something dark and studded with white flecks.

“No,” Dr. Ziegler, Jean-Baptiste Augustin, Ana, and Zarya all said at the same time. The woman pouted.

“Maybe not the bacon,” Jean-Baptiste Augustin suggested, looking down at Cyberninja’s plate. “But it’s a small piece. Cyberninja, be careful—there’s a lot of salt in that.” He added, pointing to a flat piece of something pink and brown on its plate.

Zarya chuckled. “Lena made the eggs so it won’t taste like anything anyway.”

“Hey!” the woman with the blue device exclaimed. She didn’t seem particularly hurt, but from her reaction she was exasperated—it must be a common joke and Cyberninja remembered Zarya saying something similar at dinner the night before.

The technician Brigitte leaned around Soldier: 76 and smiled at it. “It’s good to see you around, Cyberninja,” she said with what it thought was inordinate cheerfulness. “How are your arm and legs holding up?”

“It is functional,” it told her stiffly.

“If you need any cleaning solution, let me know,” she told it, seemingly unbothered by its claim. “Or if your arm gives you any more trouble.” She returned to eating, speaking in Swedish to the diminutive man on her other side. It sounded like he was scolding her, most likely for talking to it with such familiarity.

Genji wordlessly offered a piece of something bright yellow. He had removed his face mask and seemed to eat as a human. It wondered if he was like it and could consume certain human foods.

Or if he was like it in that he was an omnic in what was left of a human’s body. Had he decided—or had he been convinced—that he was the human Genji? It wondered if it could ask its handler this.

It considered the yellow thing that Genji offered but Zarya picked up its plate and put it beneath the two decorative sticks that Genji was using to hold it in the air. When he dropped it on the plate, she returned it to Cyberninja.

With her fork, Zarya pointed to each of the items on its plate and named them: scrambled eggs (tasteless, according to Zarya, because they were made by Lena; they were pale yellow tufts), a piece of bacon (pink and brown with a strip of translucent white that Zarya said was fat), a grey-tan piece of breakfast sausage (“I don’t actually know what’s in this,” Zarya admitted. “It’s best not to ask,” its handler advised sagely and it wondered why anyone might consume such a thing.).

Zarya tapped the yellow thing that Genji had offered. “Pickled radish,” she said, making a face.

“_Takuan_ or _danmuji_,” Agent Song piped up. “It smells up the fridge.”

Obediently, Cyberninja ate each offering one at a time. The bacon made its mouth feel dry; the pickled radish made it tingle and salivate. It did not like the breakfast sausage or the scrambled eggs.

It was glad to drink the soup that Ana had brought it. It was safe and it gratefully used its spoon to eat quickly.

“Cyberninja,” Winston said and it looked up, surprised to be addressed. “We are discussing chore rotation. What are your plans today?”

“It was not assigned a chore,” it said hesitantly. The woman with the blue device looked away.

The diminutive man snorted. “And what’re ye expecting it t’ do?” he asked snidely. “Do inventory?”

There was a long period of silence. “Cyberninja,” Ana said, her lips twisted downward in a frown. For a moment it actually felt afraid of her before it realized that she was not displeased with it. “Will you explain the situation with the communal garden?”

It hesitated, glancing back at its handler who nodded and shrugged as if to say, it’s Ana.

“Yesterday it assisted Bastion in the communal garden,” it said. “At this time, Bastion found it prudent to plant what was salvaged from the previous base to get them used to the soil. They were intending on installing an irrigation apparatus to ensure that the plants are able to be watered.”

“How far along is that?” Winston asked.

“It is not sure.”

Winston grunted. “For lack of anything else, I will assign you to work with Bastion on the garden,” he said at last. He hesitated. “Do you confirm the order?”

It considered Winston, then looked at its handler who shrugged. Clearly, he intended for it to decide if it was going to obey Winston. To decide not to obey the order would put it and its handler in danger.

“Confirmed,” it said and Winston nodded.

The discussion continued but it stopped listening, focusing instead on eating the broth in its bowl. “Don’t forget to put on sunscreen, Cyberninja,” Jean-Baptiste Augustin said as he stood up with his plates.

“Confirmed,” Cyberninja told him obediently. With a friendly nod, Jean-Baptiste Augustin walked toward the kitchen. 

“I will go with him,” Ana said. “You may as well let McCree come along too—or do you have another purpose for him?” 

Cyberninja continued to spoon its soup into its mouth, listening distractedly. Winston ruled that its handler could accompany them; the diminutive man, who Winston called Torbörn, argued that it was unsafe for Cyberninja and its handler to be near each other. 

He accused Ana of being unfit to guard against both of them. There was something hateful in the way that he spoke. It supposed that it would make sense given its handler’s words: they had killed a lot of past Overwatch agents, had done a lot that would be worth earning his hatred. 

Still, it wondered. 

“He’s healing,” Zhou Mei-Ling said, to its surprise. “He needs familiar places and—” here she glanced at Cyberninja, then at McCree before turning back to Torbjörn. “—he needs familiar faces. Unfortunately right now, there are very few faces that he finds familiar or comfortable.” 

Something crunched and it watched everyone turn to look at it, then at its left hand. It realized belatedly that it had crushed the spoon it was holding. “Are you okay, Cyberninja?” Zenyatta asked. 

Distantly, it was aware of the burning of its anger. “It has a question,” the burning forced it to say. It forced itself to unclench its jaw. “What is the difference between Overwatch and Talon?” 

“What kind of question is that?” Genji demanded. He seemed to have found his voice. Perhaps, like its handler did sometimes, he took a while to wake up. 

“What do you mean?” Winston asked. 

It considered its next words carefully and glanced at its handler. He smiled and nodded encouragingly at it. Emboldened by its frustration and its handler’s nod, it turned back to Winston and challenged him with a look. He was the commander, after all. Overwatch was to obey him—and while it suspected that he did not demand their complete obedience in their thoughts, he would still inspire their obedience 

“Talon told it what to do,” it said carefully. “They told it what kind of person to be: to be a killer, to act undercover. They told it what to consume, when to sleep, who to obey. How is Talon different from Overwatch?” 

For a long moment there was silence in the small mess hall. Jean-Baptiste Augustin came back from the kitchen and stood in the doorway, listening without interrupting. 

Winston looked uncomfortable. “Well, Overwatch runs differently,” he said earnestly. “We’re not telling you how to behave—”

“Are you not?” Ana interrupted. She fell silent and nodded at Cyberninja. Zarya looked uncomfortable but she offered a shaky smile to Cyberninja. 

Bolstered by their quiet support, it said, “Thus far, almost everyone at Overwatch has told it about Hanzo. You tell it where he used to meditate, what he used to like, what his favorite foods were. You want it to be Hanzo but it is not.” It paused and briefly looked around the table before meeting Winston’s eyes again. “So how is Overwatch different from Talon?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had a lot of fun writing this chapter as well but for different reasons than Chapter 9. This has one of the questions I had always wanted Cyberninja to ask: how is Overwatch different than Talon?
> 
> Come and find me on Twitter at [Dracoduceus](https://twitter.com/dracoduceus)!
> 
> ~DC


	13. Disaggregation: 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It has dreamed before, but not like this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You may have noticed that I changed the chapter titles. 
> 
> Originally, Smooth River Stones (the arc) was supposed to end at chapter 9 and would transition into a second arc in a different story. It would mark different arcs of Cyberninja's "recovery" and different tones of the story. 
> 
> I had decided to keep it one story but recently decided to change the chapter titles to reflect this change.

_For the first time since the base attack, it dreamed._

_It stood in front of a mirror but instead of seeing its reflection, it saw Hanzo. Each time it moved, he moved too and it stepped closer to the polished surface. Hanzo remained standing where he had been._

_Hanzo’s eyes were hard, his face stony; he held himself stiffly, as if ready to bolt at any moment. Fight or flight instincts._

_The featureless room and the mirror disappeared and it found itself in a room. Members of Overwatch slept on any flat surface, arms and legs flung everywhere. Had the scene not been bloodless, it would have thought that some kind of terrible bomb had gone off to have scattered the bodies so._

_It was pulled along, a passenger in its own body._

_The first body was Agent Song, looking much younger without her fierce expression and war paint. It laid a blanket over her body, pulled it up to her neck, and she twitched but didn’t wake up._

_It moved on. Zhou Mei-Ling received two blankets; Zarya received a thin sheet. The woman with the blue device on her chest was given a pillow as well, to protect her head from the hardwood floor._

_Brigitte was awake but looked ready to fall asleep; it handed her a blanket instead of spreading it over her and she smiled sleepily. “You’re not going to tuck me in, too?” she teased._

_It felt itself laugh. “Would you like me to read you a story as well?” a voice that sounded like its own asked. It sounded somehow both familiar and completely alien._

_This must be what Hanzo sounded like, it realized._

_“Would you?” Brigitte teased and Hanzo clicked his tongue, spreading the blanket over her. “You don’t seem the type to do bedtime stories.”_

_Hanzo scoffed as he lifted Brigitte’s feet up on the couch and she laughed as he tucked the blanket firmly around her feet and legs. “I’ll have you know that I used to read stories to the children all the time.”_

_“You have children?” Brigitte asked._

_“Siblings. Cousins,” Hanzo corrected. “When they were young, I used to read stories to them because nobody else would.”_

_Brigitte hummed. “What was their favorite story?”_

_“It was one I made up,” Hanzo admitted. “A goddess that fell in love with a robot. The robot hid himself in veils so nobody would know.”_

_“That sounds like a wonderful story,” Brigitte said and slowly closed her eyes. “How did it end?”_

_Hanzo didn’t answer. He moved into the kitchen._

_The world shifted and suddenly Cyberninja was standing in the kitchen as well, watching as Hanzo cleaned up dirty glasses and empty bottles of liquor. For the first time, it noticed Ana leaning against the counter._

It powered on, feeling confused.

“It dreamt,” it told its handler later that morning and told him what it saw.

Its handler tilted his head to the side. “That doesn’t sound like a memory,” he said. “I recognize the scene you described with everyone sleeping. That was about a month after you—sorry, _Hanzo_—joined Overwatch. We had a big celebration for…I think it was Thanksgiving…and we all passed out in the common room.”

“Not everyone,” Zarya corrected. She was in the kitchen, helping Reinhardt make breakfast. Both had turned down its offer to assist them. “The old people weren’t there.”

“That couch wasn’t good for my back,” Reinhardt complained in his booming voice. “And I’m not as young as I used to be…”

Its handler rolled his eyes at Cyberninja with a crooked smile. He had more life in his face but he was still tired, still seemed haunted. Given what he had gone through, it supposed that it couldn’t blame him.

“But that part of your dream appears to be a memory,” its handler said. “Separating yourself from…Hanzo.” it politely ignored the hesitance in his voice at saying the name of his husband. Its handler cleared his throat. “Separating yourself from Hanzo, seeing him in a mirror…those appear to be dreams.”

“It has dreamed before,” it said cautiously. “But not like this.”

Its handler shrugged. “Not really,” he admitted. “It’s easier to call it that. Under your programming, you would be…uncomfortable if I told you that they were memories.”

For a long moment it considered that before nodding. “It would,” it agreed. “It is still…uncomfortable.”

“I would imagine so,” its handler said sympathetically. “I know how you feel about people talking about you being human.”

It considered that, still not used to speaking with its handler. Its handler was to order it, or order it to debrief; these…conversations were alien. Deciding to say nothing, it watched Zarya and Reinhardt cook (because that’s what it had been told was the word for “making food”).

“Why don’t you come here, Cyberninja?” Zarya suggested. “I’ll show you how to warm up your soup.”

After a glance at its handler for confirmation that it no longer truly needed—and receiving a smile and a nod—it stood and approached Zarya.

“The pots are here,” Zarya said, opening a cupboard and showing it a disorganized pile of dusty vessels. “Find a small one—one that will fit enough liquid for you to fill your stomach.”

“Fuel tank,” McCree said from the table. “That is, if you’re still calling it that.”

It obeyed and Zarya showed it how to clean it off and place it on one of the burners. “We have some leftovers,” Zarya said thoughtfully, peering in the white box that provided their food. “We can add them to your soup.”

She placed containers of dark brown liquid—it recognized its own fuel and was…amused…to note that the container was labeled with its designation—and plants that it recognized from Bastion’s garden.

“These are mild and don’t taste like much,” Zarya told it. “Here, try a piece.”

With a knife, she cut small pieces from the plants which Cyberninja obediently tried, unsure what she was expecting it to do or say. Since she seemed to want an answer, it nodded—a response, it found, that seemed to be accepted for the expectant looks that everyone liked to give it.

“You don’t understand, do you?” Reinhardt asked suddenly, surprising it. “She wanted you to taste it…but do you know what that means?”

It hesitated. “It does not understand.”

Zarya’s face fell and it thought that perhaps it should have lied. “Okay,” Zarya said after a moment of struggling. “We can do this.”

She cut another slice of each of the plants and returned to the white box that the agents got their food from. She returned with other pieces in her hands and a jar of the yellow things that Genji had offered to it to try.

With an exaggerated expression of disgust, Zarya opened the jar, pulled out a slice of _takuan_ with a fork, and after sealing the jar, put it away. “Shut up,” Reinhardt said with a booming laugh. “You know you like them.”

Zarya smiled at Cyberninja. “I do,” she agreed. “Okay. Let’s try some of these. They’re all crunchy, so they have similar textures, but they all taste different.”

It tried each in turn as Zarya talked about each food. The _takuan_ was sour, which explained why its tongue might feel tingly, as if it’s trying to curl in on itself; the piece of apple she pointed to was sweet. The dark green leaf with jagged points was parsley and it was bitter; it decided that it didn’t like that and Zarya laughed.

“These are just some flavors,” she explained to Cyberninja. “But what you feel with your tongue is taste.”

“Humans eat for energy but also, sometimes, for taste,” its handler added. “Sometimes it’s easier to eat when something tastes good.”

Zarya briskly chopped some of the plants on the counter and added them to the cleaned pot. “We talked about cooking together sometime,” Zarya said. “I didn’t think it would be so soon! Come here, I’ll show you.”

It obeyed, curious despite itself, and Zarya held out a spoon, which it took in its dominant hand. She instructed it to hold the handle of the pot with its other and showed it how to gently stir the plant pieces in the pot as it began to hiss from the heat.

“When vegetables heat up, they release moisture,” Zarya told it. “See? All of them react differently but a lot of them will turn transparent or softer. Look, you can see it happening here.” Using the fork she had used to pull out the slice of _takuan_, Zarya pointed to one of the green crescent-shaped things in the pot.

She helped it measure out a portion of broth, showed it how to very lightly season it. There were small jars of spices scattered all over the kitchen and she named each one it found.

“For now, we’ll go simple,” she said. “Because your stomach is still sensitive.” She picked up a larger jar with a transparent plastic lid.

Someone had crossed out the neatly-printed words (SALT) and replaced it with _Lena’s Bane._

“Hold out your hand,” Zarya ordered and it obeyed. She sprinkled a few grains of translucent white…salt into its palm. “That’s salt. They call it a ‘flavor enhancer’ and it’s used in everything except whatever Lena cooks.”

From the table, its handler barked a rough sound of laughter.

“You can eat it,” Zarya told Cyberninja. “And it will be salty. It feels very strange to describe flavors like this.”

“Your mouth will water,” Reinhardt said helpfully. “Or does it dry out? But that’s what salt does. Do you remember the pickle? That is coated in vinegar and this is salt—they’re two styles of preserving food.” 

“Moisture promotes bacterial growth, which is not necessarily good for the human system,” Zenyatta said from the door. Genji followed behind him and seeing the second omnic made Cyberninja uncomfortable. “The human body is a fascinating thing, but if you leave food out too long, bacteria that the human body cannot handle can make someone very sick. Salt and vinegar pull moisture out of the food and thus preserves it.”

“Salt, despite what Lena says, is also a very important seasoning,” its handler said and Cyberninja eyed Genji as he approached the table where its handler sat. It walked back to its handler, ready to defend him. “You don’t need to,” its handler told it. “You should go back to Zarya—I think you’ll like to cook and she’s a good teacher for the basics.”

“Thanks,” Zarya said dryly.

It watched Genji who seemed surprised that it was still hovering over its handler. He hesitated and turned back to its handler. “McCree,” Genji said very carefully. It sounded as if the words had to be pried out of his vocalizer. “I have been unfair to you.”

“Not the first time,” its handler said brusquely. “And I doubt it’d be the last. You had no reason—despite our history—to trust me. I get it; still smarts, though.”

Genji flinched and it wondered what history they had. Perhaps, if Genji so believed that he was Hanzo’s brother, they knew each other before—it would make sense, given that McCree was Hanzo’s husband. Something ugly welled up inside it though. How did they know each other?

As if something in it had heard its query and chose to answer, another memory file rose to the surface.

_“I know my brother,” Hanzo’s voice said._

_It wondered what had happened—was this an argument? So many times, Hanzo’s voice was calm, level; sometimes there was real affection in it. Now, he sounded so sad, so…bitter. Like the herb it had tried with Zarya that had pulled its lips into a frown._

_“I will not…interfere.”_

_“Interfere with _what?_” its handler asked, sounding amused and baffled._

_Hanzo made a frustrated sound. “I will not…come between what you might have; I will not be another notch on your belt.”_

_Silence and then its handler laughed. “Oh Jesus, we ain’t together! And we ain’t never been.” In his mirth, a twang of an accent colored his voice. It decided that it liked it. “No, we were teammates and barely that! He hated my guts.”_

The replay released it gently.

“I’m trying to apologize,” Genji said sharply.

Something in it wanted to say, _then apologize_ but it closed its vocalizer, instead watching the events unfold.

“For what?” its handler asked tightly.

Zarya walked over, carrying the pot in one hand and the spoon it had been using to stir it with the other. “Then apologize,” Zarya said where it would not.

It wondered what Genji was trying to apologize for. Perhaps it would never know because he turned and stomped out of the kitchen.

“Don’t let him walk all over you,” Zarya ordered its handler sternly, shaking the spoon at him. Its handler raised a hand to block the splatter of food.

“I deserve it,” its handler said.

Zenyatta hummed. “It’s not about deserving,” he pointed out. “And it’s not for us to decide what you do or do not deserve. We know that you did the best you could under the circumstance.”

“I didn’t,” its handler said bitterly. A part of it hurt for its handler. “If I did, we wouldn’t be in this situation. If I did my best, I would’a swallowed the hurt and put a bullet in his head as soon as I saw him.” He jerked his head at Cyberninja.

It was surprised how much it hurt and yet…

Yet, there was a part of it that was satisfied. It wondered if it was a part of Hanzo—it remembered its handler saying that Hanzo would not want to live as Cyberninja. A part of it couldn’t blame him.

Suddenly it was aware that everyone in the kitchen was looking at it. Unnoticed by everyone else, it saw Agent Song standing in the doorway, her eyes wide—she had probably heard what its handler had said about killing Hanzo.

“It is…not hurt,” it said, which was mostly true. Its handler looked stricken but still nodded encouragingly at it—he wanted it to talk even if its words cut.

To its surprise, it really wasn’t…upset. The thought of its handler killing it was…unpleasant—and again, it was surprised. It _wanted_ to live, even if this life was strange.

It wanted to live with its handler, wanted to keep learning. It wanted to be in the garden with Bastion and follow Zarya as she took it around the base, as she talked about spices and flavors that it couldn’t quite understand.

But maybe one day it would.

The very thought made its respiratory system hitch. It didn’t say any of this but looked at its handler when it said, “It is not hurt that you would think that you should have spared your husband this fate. No human would _want_ to be made a Doll.”

“And you?” Zenyatta asked. “Do you want to be a Doll?”

It very carefully considered the question, aware that everyone was looking at it with that frustrating look on their faces. Like they expected a particular answer from it. It hated those looks and considered whether it should tell the truth—and potentially receive disappointed looks—or lie.

Its handler would know that it lied, and perhaps Zarya would; Zenyatta surely would be able to tell somehow. Instead of looking at them, it found itself looking at Agent Song.

“It is not human,” it said simply. “It is not omnic it is…not a drone.”

“Progress,” Zenyatta said serenely. “You acknowledge that you are not a Doll, a drone, or an omnic.” He said something else but Cyberninja wasn’t listening.

Agent Song hid her face, turned away. It watched her slip out the open door and disappear into the hallway.

It decided not to tell anyone about the strange look on Agent Song’s face, or that Zenyatta was wrong—it had only said that it was not a drone or an omnic. Despite what people may say, despite the base of its chassis and the replays that still rose to the surface, it was still very much a Doll.

Just a very broken Doll.

* * *

_There was screaming._

_There was blood._

_It coated its hands, its face, its clothes, the mat of braided reeds beneath its feet. It soaked the air, soaked the blade in its hands._

_Someone was screaming in a language it didn’t understand, but it understood one word, could hear it among the garbled cries that ended in wet gurgles that spoke of punctured lungs and a damaged tongue: Hanzo._

_There was a ruined, mangled mess of blood and bone and flesh that almost did not resemble anything human. But the longer it stared, the more it could recognize._

_Here was a ruined arm, separated at the elbow; a leg, separated mid-thigh though how the person could still speak, was still alive was beyond it. There was a face that peered out from the gory mess; it was strangely clean, was untouched by blood or by the blade it held in its weak hand._

_“Hanzo,” the face said in that broken, gurgling voice. Though it could see no damage to it, it spoke as if it only had half a tongue. “Hanzo,” it moaned. It said something else in a language that was familiar and yet it couldn’t place it, couldn’t understand the words._

_Around it—around _Hanzo_, for this was clearly one of his memories, or was perhaps was one of those dreams that its handler had talked about—there came a chanting. Voices overlapped, the words chanted as steady as the beat of a drum; among the unfamiliar words it could hear another word that inexplicably filled it with dread, that froze up its struts and prevented it from moving._

_It felt as if an iron band closed around its throat, as if it were once more in the grasp of the Dollhouse mechanics; it felt like the decommissioned Doll it had once seen, strapped to the table and unable to move as the technicians cut it open._

_Whatever chant had begun ended and the word was whispered by what felt like a thousand voices._

_Shimada._

_Shimada._

It powered on.

Blue light sparked from its dominant hand, crackling along the struts and panels like miniature bolts of lightning. At first it was afraid that its arm had been broken and then it realized that it could feel each jolt; it felt warm, familiar.

That did not change the fact that it was charged up, that it burned from the inside.

It needed to move so it got to its feet. The clothes it wore to its berth were damp, as was its dermal plating—what happened when it exerted itself—and it didn’t see the point in ruining another set of clothes.

Carefully it opened the door. It had not been told that it was to remain in its quarters, but it had been told that people were supposed to accompany it around base. However, it had not been ordered directly so it slipped into the dark hallway and took a moment for its optics to adjust to the dim glow.

Unlike the other base, there were fewer windows and even fewer overhead light fixtures. Someone had found the electrical outlets in the hallway and plugged in small pink lights of shaped plastic.

It paused to look at one. It had a cartoonish face with two antennae pointing in the air. Somehow it seemed to be smirking, though how it could read this expression it wasn’t sure.

Soon the little light proved too boring and it stood, walking along the hallway. Perhaps it would find the gym that Zarya had shown it. Perhaps there was something there that it could use to deplete the charge building in its body.

Taking a moment to recall the map of the base, it set off down the dark hallways, creeping past doors labeled with small plaques reading the name of each operative that lived there.

Ana Amari & Soldier: 76.

Lena “Tracer” Oxton.

Zhou Mei-Ling, Ph.D. & Aleksandra Zaryanova.

There was one that made it pause and unable to help itself, it traced the embossed letters with its fingers. Hanzo & McCree.

For a moment it stared at the plaque. It had assumed that this base had been abandoned but perhaps that was incorrect; or perhaps someone had simply taken the plaques from the doors at the previous base. That seemed strange though, an odd detail to remember in the rush to evacuate the previous base.

Unbidden, it wondered what it must be like to see the ghost of your spouse? To watch it walk around as if it was human but know that it’s not? It knew that its handler so deeply loved his husband, could see it in the pain in his face, the longing in his eyes.

It remembered the mission that had led it to Overwatch. How he had looked down at it so tenderly, had cupped its cheek. There was pain there, too. Pain, fear, and something that it couldn’t name; all the same it made its pump stutter in its chest cavity.

What kind of suffering had its handler gone through? To see the face of his husband, to see him walking and moving and speaking but knowing that it was not Hanzo?

Could it do that? It didn’t think it could.

It walked down the hall again, tracing the steps to the gymnasium that Zarya had shown it. Before it got there, it passed a doorway that opened into a large garage area; the door was labeled simply: _MEKA_.

A large machine stood in the middle of the room, connected to—_surprise_, it thought to itself—exposed scaffolding by thick wires. Chains supported its weight as well and a row of computer screens displayed codes and close-ups of the machine.

There was a dark-haired man at the computers, typing away while Agent Song, her back to the open door, was peering into one of the open compartments of the machine. She and the dark-haired man were speaking to each other in a language that it only vaguely recognized, but it could not understand enough to follow along.

It sounded like the man was scolding Agent Song who was dismissive. He seemed fond, playfully exasperated as he looked up from the computers and turned to face her. As he did, he happened to glance in the open doorway and yelled in surprise.

Agent Song nearly fell off the machine, catching herself at the last minute by one of the chains by hooking her foot around it. Hanging upside-down, she turned to the door and pressed her hands to her mouth in shock.

“Holy shit,” she said in English a moment later. “You scared me. Get out of the shadows, you creep!”

“Are you okay, Hana?” the dark-haired man asked in the same language, getting up and skittering around the machine to Agent Song.

It stepped into the room carefully, looking around. When it looked back at Agent Song, it found her face pink from being upside down. It walked quickly over to her, sending the dark-haired man jumping back and after a moment of hesitation, lifted Agent Song. Very carefully it set her on her feet and backed away.

“You’re lucky I caught myself,” Agent Song scolded, so at odds with the way she had been interacting with it in the past that it was momentarily confused. “Or I would have gotten a concussion—or worse! What are you doing here?”

It peered at her, then at the dark-haired man. He seemed terrified of Cyberninja and it realized that it was…upset by that.

“It is at full charge,” it said after a moment.

Agent Song huffed. “Do you need to…deplete your charge?” she asked, peering at it. “You’re antsy.”

Antsy? It did not like that word; it somehow sounded exactly how it felt, as if tiny little insects crawled beneath its dermal plating.

“Who is that?” the dark-haired man asked in a small voice.

Agent Song turned to him and said something in the language they had been speaking in earlier. To Cyberninja, she said, “This is Park Dae-hyun. He is the head mechanic on my MEKA.”

It peered at the dark-haired man. “Confirmed,” it said.

“Do you know my name?” Agent Song asked and the veneer began to crack. It looked at her and found her lips pressed tight. 

“You are Agent Hana ‘D.Va’ Song,” it said dutifully.

“You may call me Hana,” she said and her voice cracked a little. It confirmed. “Are you on your way to the gym?”

It hesitated. “It is,” it agreed. “Unless you require it here?”

Technically she wasn’t on its very short list of potential handlers, but perhaps giving her some control over it may make her more comfortable.

Her lips shook slightly. “No,” she said, her voice cracking again.

“Hana,” Park Dae-hyun said softly.

She looked at him and then back at Cyberninja. Her jaw was set stubbornly but her eyes were watery. “Hanzo and I were close,” she said and her voice cracked on his name. “Real close. He was my _ojisan_. I know you’re not the same person but…”

“But when you look at it,” it said softly when she trailed off. “All you see is him.” In the early morning—as evidenced by the palest glow from the window, by the glowing numbers of the clock nearby that read 0450—this felt like another dream.

It had noticed these things before. It was bolder in the mornings, or perhaps it simply didn’t care as much. But if it was comfortable, was more open to making such dangerous confessions and saying such dangerous things, apparently so was Hana.

She wrapped her arms around herself. “I was there,” she said very softly. Hana looked down, hid her face from it. “When they captured him. I was on the mission and I was right there with him.” She sniffed and Park Dae-hyun overcame his fear of Cyberninja to run to her, wrapping his arm around her in a gesture of comfort.

Words poured out of Hana and it felt…sympathetic. It knew that kind of momentum, the kind that couldn’t be stopped. So it listened.

“He was injured, couldn’t run. My MEKA was badly damaged but my boosters still worked and the team needed my help. Hanzo sent me ahead, said that he’d catch up and I left. _I left him there and they took him_.” She seemed smaller now, as if grief had eaten away at her. It knew that she was young but now she looked her age instead of the confident soldier that had challenged it earlier. “He was injured and they took him and _I had been right there_. If I hadn’t gone ahead, I would have been there to help him and now…”

She took a few shuddering breaths and Park Dae-hyun looked helpless. It could sympathize. Hana cried as if she was broken, great shuddering sobs that shook her frame but she continued to face Cyberninja despite Park Dae-hyun trying to turn her into a hug. She looked up at Cyberninja, her eyes red-rimmed from her tears.

“You look like him,” she said. “I know it’s your…base model. I know that you aren’t him but what was built into what _was_ him, but…all I see when I look at you is…”

It was torn between sympathy and frustration. She was clearly hurting, clearly understood that it was not Hanzo, but at the same time she only saw him when she looked at it.

“You see guilt,” Park Dae-hyun said, surprising Cyberninja. “You don’t see Hanzo.” Though he was clearly afraid, he looked boldly at Cyberninja. “Will you get her some water? There is a small kitchen over there.” he jerked his head in another area of the large room that it hadn’t noticed before. It saw a sink, a few cupboards, and a small version of the white box that held the team’s food.

Hana was shuddering in Park Dae-hyun’s embrace and it decided to obey, walking past them to search the cupboards for a cup. Behind it, it heard Park Dae-hyun speaking to Hana in that language from before.

“It’s like a nightmare,” Hana said and hiccupped. “I’m sorry, it’s just…”

“Pressure builds up,” it found itself saying. “You need to release it every once in a while. If you hold it back for too long…” it trailed off, staring down at the cup in its hand.

Hana sniffled. “_Ojisan_ used to say that to me. I know I shouldn’t compare you to him but—I’m sorry…”

“You’re familiar,” Park Dae-hyun said abruptly. “Humans like to cling to the familiar.” He looked away. “I knew Hanzo too. Hard not to when Hana spent so much time with him. She’s right—it’s like something out of a nightmare. It’s like watching…like seeing a puppet walking around.” He gestured and moved Hana to a nearby couch. “Sit with us?” he asked, to Cyberninja’s surprise.

Hana curled up against Park Dae-hyun’s side and it handed him the cup of water. “I suspect that the rest of the team is having a hard time dealing?” Park Dae-hyun asked, not quite looking at Cyberninja. “I don’t blame them. At first when I saw you, I thought you were a ghost—your eyes didn’t help.” Its eyes? As if seeing its confusion, Park Dae-hyun pointed to his own pair of brown human eyes. “They have…what do you call it? Eyeshine. Like a cat.”

They sat in silence for a long time as Hana continued to cry quietly. She sipped from the cup of water and hiccupped but didn’t say anything else.

Cyberninja looked around. The room was uncomfortably like the labs that the Dollhouse technicians used but there were enough differences. A bank of monitors showed messages and schematics and beside it a table bristled with tools of all kinds.

“We were making repairs to the MEKA,” Park Dae-hyun said. “There are software upgrades and some of the armor had been compromised in the last fight.”

It wondered if he referred to the fight at the other base but didn’t say anything. When it turned back, it found Hana looking at it. Her eyes were red and swollen, the tip of her nose pink.

“I’m sorry,” she said, her voice wavering a little. “I don’t know what came over me.”

For a moment it hesitated, debating if it should speak. At last it said, “You saw a ghost,” it said. “It makes sense for you to be…uncomfortable.”

She gave it a watery smile. “Yeah,” she croaked and scrubbed at her face. “Do you…want to stay?”

“Can it be of use here?” it wondered. It hesitated. “Will it…upset you?”

Hana shook her head. “I need help carrying things,” Park Dae-hyun offered cautiously, glancing at Hana. “Would you like to?”

It considered that. _Would you like to?_ It was an innocuous question and yet…

Humans got to choose and it was not human. It was not a drone; it still wasn’t an omnic but perhaps…perhaps it could choose. Whatever it was, it had that ability.

And it was a different world in the pre-dawn gloom that crept in through the windows.

“Yes,” it decided and Hana gave it a weak smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Love it? Hate it? Please let me know! I really do love hearing from you! It makes me so happy to hear your thoughts, your theories, what you liked and didn't like. 
> 
> You can also find me on Twitter at [dracoduceus](https://twitter.com/dracoduceus). Feel free to come over and say hi!
> 
> ~DC


	14. Disaggregation: 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It does not like these thoughts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Chapter tags/warnings:** discussion of suicide, suicidal ideation, dealing with depression in unhealthy ways, existential crisis

“Penny for your thoughts?”

Cyberninja looked at its handler. He was sitting at the table across from Cyberninja; their chaperone, Zarya, was at the stove though Cyberninja didn’t know what she was cooking. “It does not understand.”

He smiled. For a brief moment, Hanzo’s memory of his husband’s smile was superimposed over what Cyberninja saw. “It’s slang,” its handler explained. “It means that I would like to know what you’re thinking. I can see that it is upsetting you. Hopefully by sharing your thoughts, you’ll feel better.”

“It is not upset,” it corrected its handler. At the same time, it knew that it was incorrect. It _was_ upset but unlike what its handler seemed to think, it could not figure out why.

Its handler smiled at it and it tried not to be frustrated. Once more, Hanzo’s memories overlaid its own vision, something that was distracting.

“It does not like being idle,” it said and immediately realized its error.

“You don’t _like_ to be idle?” its handler echoed, with slight emphasis on the forbidden word. He didn’t seem upset. “I suppose that makes sense. You’re not used to lingering around like this, are you?”

For the past two weeks, they had been fortifying the new base. Cyberninja had been relegated to the gardens with Bastion and Ana, to get their garden up and running. It had not been privy to the other base defenses, something that would have likely made the engineers uncomfortable.

“Do you miss combat?” its handler asked, startling it. “We used to be assigned missions very often,” he continued. “Is that what you miss?”

It carefully considered that. Its handler was correct in implying that its current objective was not truly _idle_. He was right that it missed something more than this…busywork.

Where the word came from, it didn’t know, though it was glad that the word did not come attached to another of Hanzo’s memories. In some ways it missed when it didn’t have these memories or these feelings. There was something freeing in obedience, in the programming that suppressed the pieces of Hanzo that still tried to struggle to the surface.

But to miss something would be to want something—and Dolls did not _want_.

“It does not miss things,” it reminded its handler. “A Doll does not want.”

“Are you still a Doll?” Zarya wondered, speaking for the first time.

For a moment it considered the question. To it, the answer was very clear. “It is a Doll,” it said. “It was made a Doll and will always be a Doll.” _It is just broken_, it wanted to say but didn’t.

Or perhaps it should. Perhaps it _should_ admit that it’s broken; perhaps it _should_ request being taken to the technicians for recalibration. It would be easier to return to easy obedience than to be inundated with Hanzo’s memories and these strange weights of feelings.

_“A heart is a heavy burden,”_ a voice from Hanzo’s memory said.

Humans, it realized, would not understand this burden. A human was born a human, with feelings and desires; omnics and Dolls were _created_, but not with these luxuries in mind. Omnics were not meant to ascend to humanity but they did—they could learn to shoulder that burden.

Dolls were to remain as drones, after all humanity had been scooped out of them. They were to be empty husks; these memories that it was experiencing was simply a sign that it was broken. That something had gone wrong in its creation.

The thought frustrated it. An omnic would be accepted as something gaining humanity—ascending, as Zenyatta sometimes called it. But a Doll was not meant to. A Doll was once human and reverted into the most basic programming, the most basic functions.

A Doll was not meant to think or dream. It was not meant to _taste_ or choose or want. Most of all, it was not meant to _remember_. The technicians were supposed to wipe those memories…was it meant to spare their Dolls the pain of human suffering?

It looked down at its hands, which were resting on the table in front of it; its handler’s hand was curled around a mug of coffee. The other was missing—Overwatch had “misplaced” his prosthesis as they moved bases and aside from providing an ill-calibrated and mismatched prototype, didn’t seem too inclined to fix the issue.

Would its handler have benefitted from being a Doll? Certainly, it would have ended his suffering. It could see the way that he hurt, especially when he looked at it. He would be spared the agony of looking at Cyberninja and seeing his husband.

Something in it balked at the thought. There was something…_wrong_ with the thought of its handler’s eyes blank, his movements robotic. Moving around like Sigma, like a body carried around on a meat hook; his eyes glassy and glazed over, like the glass eyes of a doll. There was something in its handler that burned, that blazed—becoming a Doll would extinguish that flame.

It was that warmth that in some ways had damned Cyberninja. As soon as it had that thought, it knew somehow that it was right. As if it held a candle whose flame had been blown out—and its handler had been a fire that had lit it again.

While it was true, it did not like such thoughts. A Doll was not meant for humanity—a Doll was not meant for such thoughts.

“I suppose so,” its handler said a little wistfully. “You will never be quite human again.”

Zarya made an odd noise. “It’s hard to hear that but…”

“It’s true,” its handler said, sounding tired. “Cyberninja will never be Hanzo again.” He smiled at Cyberninja and though it was pained, it could still feel the warmth of the fire in him. “You are your own person. Whether you accept it or not, you can _choose_—something that I’m not sure that any of the other Dolls can boast. You can choose to accept it or not.”

It considered that. Zarya finished what she was doing, putting food on a plate and setting it out for her and its handler; she laid out a bowl of stew for it, as they had decided that it could handle heavier foods.

“Would you still be its handler?” it asked.

Zarya’s smile was weak but its handler looked at it with a strange expression that it could not place. Suddenly, it remembered something—yet another thing that distressed it, as it was designed to have eidetic memory.

“You wanted to die,” it remembered. “Dr. Ziegler said that you wanted to.”

Its handler looked pained. “When did she say that?”

“If it…remains a Doll,” it said slowly. “Then it would require a handler.”

When its handler laughed, it sounded like it was dragged from his throat. Suddenly, he seemed much older, much more tired. He resembled a broken man and something in Cyberninja _ached_.

It lifted a hand to its chest, but it was uninjured.

“Is something wrong?” Zarya asked. Though she was looking at its handler, it knew that she was speaking into it.

It did not feel pain, should not, could not ever remember feeling pain but it knew somehow that this was pain, even though it did not know the cause. Still, it knew that if it said anything, then it would be cause for concern—and more distress by its handler, who already looked as if he was also in pain.

“It is functional,” it lied and put its hand down.

Zarya clearly didn’t believe it but turned to its handler. “And you?” she asked, something like disapproval in her voice.

“That’s not a fair question,” its handler growled. He turned to Cyberninja. “You don’t need me,” he told it in a clipped tone that it had never heard him use toward it. “If you choose to remain as you are, if you decide that you need a handler, there are many others here that would be better handlers for you. Baptiste, for example. Zarya.”

It considered that. Neither option was too terrible—if it was allowed to choose its handler. Perhaps it could be…satisfied with them.

It _could_ be, but it wouldn’t.

“If it could choose,” it said slowly, though by now it was sure that everyone on base knew that it was broken enough to do so. “It would always choose you.”

“Why?” its handler demanded, slapping his hand on the table. “After all I’ve done to fuck you over, _why?_”

Zarya looked back and forth between them, looking concerned. It almost didn’t notice her, though, its thoughts on something that hovered just beyond reach. A memory of Hanzo’s; a Recall.

It resisted the Recall and focused on its handler. “You are its handler,” it said simply. Perhaps to him, it was more complicated if only because he was human. To Cyberninja, it was simple. “You only need to order it and it will obey yet…” it hesitated. “You ask it what it thinks. You ask if it is well. You look after it as if it were human even though it isn’t. Even if it allowed itself to be so bold as to choose, you would be the one that it chose for those reasons.”

“Kindness,” its handler sneered, a hint of a wheeze in his voice is if the words were forced out of him. “What kindness did I do you? _I should have shot you_.”

It remembered the conversation that it probably wasn’t supposed to have overheard, the discussion in Medical that its handler had been too selfish to put an end to it when he saw that it was a Doll with the body of his husband.

“Then you would have died,” it pointed out.

For the first time that it could remember, its handler truly looked like he was about to fall apart. The ache in its chest returned and both of its fists clenched. Something in it wanted to do something, some action that was likely connected to Hanzo—perhaps some scrap of humanity that clung to an empty husk.

Surprisingly, it realized that it _wanted_ to follow those feelings of Hanzo’s that urged it to comfort its handler. It didn’t know how and the scraps of Hanzo’s memories, the memories in his body, would not help it. Zarya looked as if she had similar thoughts to Cyberninja, a helpless, aching kind of distress.

“Good,” its handler spat. “I wish I had. I wish I could have.”

It considered that. “But you didn’t,” it said simply. “Do you still want to die?”

Its handler seemed surprised, the furious expression on his face slipped away as if he hadn’t expected the question. “What?”

“You wish for death because of Hanzo,” it guessed. “You did not know what happened to him but now that you know, you cannot leave. Once you brought it to Overwatch you intended to die but you are still here.”

A strange expression crossed its handler’s face. He bowed his head and looked down at the plate that Zarya had put in front of him. “You’re not Hanzo,” he said so quietly, so weakly that its chest hurt again. “And Hanzo—or the one I knew—is never coming back. What else is there?”

It carefully considered that question. Zarya looked as if she had something that she wanted to say but was biting it back. She took a too-big bite of food and nodded encouragingly when she saw it looking.

For some reason, its handler seemed to want an answer so it took greater pains to consider the question. “Do living things not desire life?”

“Not if there’s nothing worth living for.”

It regarded him for a moment. “Do all humans desire death when someone they cared about dies?”

“This is different,” its handler insisted.

“This conversation is beyond it,” it said at last. “It is not meant to understand humanity; it is a Doll. It does not choose—it cannot, must not—but if it could, it would choose you. To you, it is something more than a drone or an object to be controlled.” It hesitated. Already it had stepped past so many boundaries that should have stopped it from speaking and yet…

Nobody had stopped it. Zarya and even its handler seemed interested in what it had to say. That was dangerous, though. If it misspoke any more than it already had, or said the wrong thing…

But they seemed to think that it was human and treated it as such. So it didn’t think that they would punish it—yet—for such dangerous thoughts, for thinking at all.

At the same time, it could sympathize with its handler’s desire to die. It wished that it could “die” as well—that it did not have these thoughts and feelings. It missed the ease of obedience—a word, an order, and it obeyed. There was nothing to consider, nothing to think about; there were no dreams or Recalls.

There were no smooth river stones, precious collections of memories that weren’t its own. Those memories of soft smiles and marriage from a life that did not belong to it; memories of Bastion and Zenyatta, of Cat and Zarya would all be erased periodically.

“A heart is a heavy burden,” a voice from Hanzo’s memories had whispered. _Humanity_ was a heavy burden, one that Cyberninja did not want to bear.

But it did—and so did its handler.

“If it could choose,” it said slowly. “It would always choose you as its handler. But it cannot choose—and it cannot choose for you. It cannot refute your choice; it must only obey. It will always protect you but it cannot do that if you choose to die.”

Its handler peered at it. “Would that upset you? If I chose death?”

“It cannot refute your choice,” it reminded him. “It…does not want you to die.”

There was something odd in his expression. “Why?” its handler demanded.

“It…” it hesitated. “It would miss you.”

Jean-Baptiste Augustin walked into the doorway and it wondered if he had overheard any of their conversation. “Are you ready, Cyberninja?”

“Go with Baptiste,” its handler said, seemingly relieved to be done with the conversation. “Take your food with you.”

“Yes, handler,” it said as it obeyed.

* * *

Bastion observed that it was distracted.

It looked around. Ana was nearby, pruning the gardenias. It thought that she could hear them, but it was fairly certain that she would not stop it. “Have you…wondered about your humanity?”

Very slowly, Bastion turned to look at it. They wondered if Cyberninja thought that it was human. 

“Physically, you are an omnic,” it said. “But you are not a thoughtless drone. There is something in you that…”

They are not human, Bastion pointed out. They were never human and never would be, because they are an omnic. They paused and trilled thoughtfully. They wondered if Cyberninja was experiencing a kind of existential crisis.

It looked down at the ground in front of it. “It is a Doll,” it told Bastion quietly. “It accepts this and it knows what it is.” For a moment it looked down at its hands. Today it wore gloves for gardening and with its long sleeves, the differences in its arms were hidden.

Once, it had made the very logical assumption that what covered its chassis was a kind of dermal coating. That had been what the Dollhouse scientists had called it—it had been coincidence that “dermal” had similar roots to “dermis”, referring to organic flesh. Or rather, it had been intentional, the act of humanizing something that wasn’t human at all.

Except…now it knew that it was once human—that this dermal plating was true, living, human skin. Epidermis, dermis, subcutaneous tissue; muscle and bone, every blood vessel and every cell. All of it was human—except for its legs, except for its left arm.

Behind it, it could hear snuffling and felt Cat’s little claws as she (its handler had told it that Cat was female) scrambled up its back to rest between its shoulder struts. She made little grunting noises and could feel the tickle of her whiskers as she sniffed at the air.

_Hanzo was young, judging by the pudginess of his little hands. They were buried in the fur of an animal in front of it; one of its young climbed on the shoulders of a little girl in front of Hanzo and she squealed, hunching her back to keep it from falling._

_“A lady does not play with beasts!” a voice said and a faceless figure stepped forward quickly. The tiny creature was yanked off of the little girl by the back of the neck and tossed aside; Hanzo hissed as the creature in his lap dug its claws into his legs and arms and scrambled away. It hovered protectively over the tiny creature and hissed._

_“A stray creature picked up from an alley?” the faceless figure continued. He (for Cyberninja was fairly certain that he was male) grabbed the little girl, making her cry out as she struggled. “Digging around in the dirt when you’re meant to be in lessons?”_

_Cyberninja noted that she was dirty, dusty from fingertip to elbow, and her pretty robe was dirty with grass and mud stains; she was barefoot and dirty up to her knees. But there was defiance in her eyes even as she wiggled and struggled against a foe she could not possibly overcome._

_“I’ll be back to deal with _you_, Young Master,” the faceless man said as he dragged the little girl away by her arm. “If you’re lucky, I won’t tell your father what you’ve done.”_

_The little girl reached back for Hanzo who reached back when the figure had his back to him. There were angry red marks from the creature’s claws in his arms and hands._

It wondered who the little girl was.

Bastion warbled. They asked if Cyberninja was okay.

“It is functional,” it told Bastion distractedly and looked down at its gloved hands again. “It…saw another of Hanzo’s memories.”

Bastion made an odd noise. They hoped that it was a good memory—how upsetting it must be if all of Hanzo’s memories were as unpleasant as he made them seem! But perhaps lacking the context made them much more pleasant in comparison to Cyberninja. Still, statistically, there _must_ be some good memories there.

They shifted and cocked their head, asking if Cyberninja was well, and what it was thinking so intently about. Why did it ask if Bastion doubted their humanity when it has none?

It considered the question and its thoughts on its handler, on Dolls. Could Bastion be trusted with such things?

As if sensing these thoughts, Bastion trilled in what it thought was meant to be a soothing series of notes. Perhaps they were trying to be encouraging.

It told them in a quiet voice what had happened before its checkup with Jean-Baptiste Augustin. Somehow it felt easier to speak to Bastion about this and the big omnic seemed pleased to listen as it released a pressure that it had not realized was building up.

Cat snuffled and hissed. Turning, Cyberninja found Ana walking toward them with a bottle of liquid tucked under one arm and a bowl of fruit held in each hand. “Keep your secrets,” she advised them. “I’ll be back by the roses—but you, Cyberninja, should eat.” She handed it one of the bowls in her hand and it found that it was full of fruit and grains. “You may have _your_ bowl when you take off your dirty gloves and wash your hands.”

It could feel Cat sniffing over its shoulder at the bowl and it carefully stood, moving aside to some of the bushes. Cat climbed happily off when it put down the bowl and immediately began eating. She made little grunting noises as she ate, her teeth smacking as she chewed on the chopped fruit that Ana had prepared.

Cyberninja moved to the outdoor basin, which had been set up by one of the engineers, and washed its hands, tucking the gloves into its belt.

“Don’t worry,” Ana was telling Bastion as it returned. “I have no intention of discussing anything I overheard here. You all deserve your secrets, Cyberninja more than most. Make sure he eats—I’ll be back with the other crops.”

She pinned it with a sharp gaze, offering the bowl and a spoon to Cyberninja. “Make sure you eat,” she said sternly. “It’s been a while. And drink water.” 

It bowed its head obediently. This seemed to be enough for her because with a smile that Cyberninja couldn’t interpret, she walked off.

Bastion whistled that she was a remarkable woman. They were always surprised by her patience and wisdom. If they ever wished to be human, they told Cyberninja as it sat down in the dirt to eat, then it wanted to be a human like Ana Amari. They settled down as well, folding into their turret mode as their large legs and rigid joints made it difficult for them to truly sit. 

For a long moment, it ate quietly. 

When it stood to clean its dishes, Bastion asked quietly if it still wanted to talk about humanity. Cyberninja paused. 

It looked back at Bastion to find that Cat was cautiously sniffing at one of their large struts, seemingly unnoticed by the omnic. Ganymede, their bird, did notice, and was looking down warily at Cat. 

“It wondered,” it said very slowly. “If a human body made it human? Would it be a broken human, or a broken Doll?” 

Bastion carefully considered that question. They whistled that they were not a fountain of wisdom like Zenyatta was, but to them, the name or the body doesn’t matter. They had the body of a robot, a bastion-class war machine from the early days of the Omnic Crisis, but that did not mean that it was the same as it was back then. 

Perhaps, Bastion wondered, Cyberninja was not human, not drone, and not quite Doll. It could be, if it chooses to name itself, something else entirely. 

It looked down at its mismatched hands, at dermal plating that was skin covering flesh and bone. Turning, it moved to wash its dishes in the basin and slid its gloves back on so that it would not see a human and mechanical hand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Love it? Hate it? 
> 
> I love to hear what you think!
> 
> You can also find me on Twitter at [Dracoduceus](https://twitter.com/dracoduceus). 
> 
> ~DC


	15. Disaggregation: 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It visits Zenyatta and learns about names.

Zenyatta’s quarters were sparse. There was a large hanging in one corner of woven fibers. The symbol, yellow on gold, seemed to have a triangular eye with lines like tears running beneath it. On the ground beneath it was a shallow pallet with blankets and pillows folded at the top. 

Beneath the single window was an ornately-carved wooden cabinet with a small burner. There were stacks of decorative wooden boxes and a collection of glass and ceramic cups. Some were glasses, meant to drink cool liquid, and others were heavier, meant for hot liquid. 

There was a low wooden table that was scratched and dented and two embroidered cushions whose bright colors had faded with age and use. Zenyatta moved to sit on one, folding his long mechanical legs in front of him.

“You have questions for me,” Zenyatta said, gesturing for it to sit on the other cushion. “Or there is something that you do not understand. I suppose that those may be the only reasons you may choose to seek me out.” 

For a long moment it hesitated. It was one thing to speak to Bastion, who did not judge and if they did make assumptions, they were innocent. Zenyatta, like many on the Overwatch roster, tended to make _conclusions_ instead.

That it was an omnic, not a Doll.

That it was no longer a Doll.

That it would one day be human.

It pulled down the sleeve over Hanzo’s arm—a new and very unsettling development, referring to parts of itself as “Hanzo” and parts that were Cyberninja—and for the first time understood the human impulse to fidget.

Bastion had been correct, though. They were not a fountain of wisdom, though there was merit to their suggestion of defining its own identity. How often had the Dollhouse scientists insisted that Cyberninja was the first of its kind? A most unique Doll?

But each Doll was unique in its own way. Each Doll was so carefully made, modeling killers from the faces of dead humans. Each Doll was groundbreaking, utterly unique.

It knew that Widowmaker had been considered the most “human”, had been capable of putting life into her voice. Sigma, bizarrely, had been able to float, though he looked like a corpse hanging from a hook, arms and neck and legs limp. The Dollhouse scientists used to jokingly call him an “angel”, whose feet could not touch the ground.

Cyberninja was Cyberninja, whatever that meant. It had no name for itself—it was a Doll, albeit a broken one and yet…

Yet no Doll had this understanding of itself. No Doll looked down at its own limbs and made the differentiation between its-own-arm and this-was-Hanzo’s-arm.

Or did they? Did Widowmaker look at herself and wonder about the woman that her body once was? Did Sigma look at itself and think of that its body used to do when a human inhabited it? Did Widowmaker have memories of a life before becoming a Doll?

It didn’t like these thoughts. They made something in it ache.

But telling Zenyatta…would it hurt? In some ways, it _wanted_ Overwatch’s technicians to wipe its memory. It _wanted_ to return to that empty life. Sometimes it no longer wanted the small collection of memories it had. What was once novel was now a burden.

The more it knew about Hanzo’s life…the more it could never live its own.

Zenyatta moved around the room, opening the cabinet beneath the window and collecting a large metal object that Hanzo’s knowledge said was called a “kettle”. He filled it with water from a plastic jug, put it on the small burner.

Such thoughts were becoming common now. Things that it had no name for but simply _knew_—knowledge that came from Hanzo, not its own understanding.

“You have much on your mind,” Zenyatta observed.

“How safe are its words?” Cyberninja asked, surprising itself.

If he had a face that could, it thought that Zenyatta would smile. “Doctor-patient confidentiality,” he said.

“That is a law governing humans,” it said before it could stop itself. “It is not human.”

Zenyatta hummed, still amused. He did not seem put off by Cyberninja’s behavior, though. A blessing, as Cyberninja was not sure what punishment might entail. “This is very true,” Zenyatta agreed. “If I give you my word to not share anything that transpires here, would that be sufficient for you?”

It considered that as the kettle began to hiss. Zenyatta lifted it off the burner, turned off the flame, and poured the hot water into a cup. It watched as he portioned out tea, put the loose leaves into a strainer in the shape of a four-legged creature hanging from the edge of the mug, and put it on the table in front of Cyberninja.

“That is tea,” Zenyatta explained. “It is a part of your approved diet—what Zarya calls a BRAT diet. The specific type of tea is genmaicha—a Japanese blend of roasted rice and green tea.”

Rice.

More rice. It did not like it but did not say this out loud to Zenyatta.

“Let it cool,” Zenyatta advised and put a smaller cup beside the ceramic mug. “And when the tea becomes dark enough, you may take the strainer out.”

“It…” it hesitated. “Accepts your offer.”

“You are going through something that nobody understands,” Zenyatta said gently. “And you have no reason to trust us. Your understanding of people—omnic and human—is painted by your experience with Talon and your fear for McCree. I understand your…” Zenyatta seemed to hesitate. It was an oddly human gesture. “Trepidation—your apprehension—and I thank you for your trust thus far. Even if we do not speak of what is on your mind, I appreciate your visit.”

Cyberninja said nothing, looking down at the tea. There was something familiar about the smell—something that Hanzo recognized but was alien to Cyberninja. It touched the strangely-shaped tea strainer. The creature looked like it was trying to escape out of the cup, from water that if it had been alive, would have hurt it.

The thought distressed it and it pulled the strainer out, putting it in the cup that Zenyatta had provided. Frozen in place, it seemed to claw at the air as it continued to drip brownish-yellow water into the bottom of the cup.

Zenyatta watched this without comment and settled down across from Cyberninja. “What would you like to talk about?” he asked.

It thought very hard for a long moment, trying to find the most neutral way of asking Zenyatta what it had asked Bastion. “Names,” it said at last.

“Names?” Zenyatta echoed. “Like Cat’s name?”

He seemed to know what Cyberninja was asking, something that distressed it—but he was playing along, letting Cyberninja decide to ask for itself. In some ways it was both relieved and frustrated.

Asking meant risk that it didn’t want to take; having Zenyatta tell it the answer without it having to ask meant that…

It did not like these thoughts, did not like wondering. It did not like thinking about what might happen to its handler if it were to become a proper Doll—would he assign it to another handler so that he could die as he so desperately wished? Would it “relapse” into whatever it was now and learn of his death?

“Like Cat’s name,” Cyberninja confirmed. “It was told to name her but it does not own a living thing.”

Zenyatta hummed. “Likely, she has her own name to call herself,” he agreed. “But we—omnic, human, Doll—do not understand such things. So we call her something to give her an identity in our own language.”

It was the first time that Zenyatta had referred to it as a Doll and the concession surprised it.

As if sensing this, Zenyatta bowed his head slightly. “I have done you a disservice,” he said. “I have been imposing an identity on you that you do not agree with. I had intended to use it as an example, not as a label; but I still distressed you and so I most sincerely apologize.”

It stared at Zenyatta. Obviously it knew what an apology was, and knew that the ritual phrase was “it’s fine”, at least from what it had observed from its handler. Sometimes he grunted and that was enough of an answer.

But it wasn’t sure that _anyone_ had apologized to it. After all, it was a Doll; why would anyone apologize to something that wasn’t living?

“You do not need to accept the apology,” Zenyatta said kindly. “Just as you do not need to forgive. But the apology is there and it is your choice how to continue.”

It considered that very carefully, looking down at the tea in front of it. The water seeping out of the strainer in the cup was darker than the water in its mug. Steam still rose from it and there was a fine layer of dust over the surface of the water, which had taken on a brownish tint.

In the still water, it saw its reflection and looked away.

“You did not mean harm—if it could feel hurt,” it added quickly. “As you said, you do not know how to handle it.”

Zenyatta bowed his head. “Very true,” he said. “The parallels I drew and the words I said did still…unsettle you, if it did not hurt you. The truth is not always easy to hear, but it should never be used as a weapon to deliberately inflict pain or distress.”

It said nothing, watching the steam rise from its mug of tea.

They sat in silence for a long moment. It reached for the tea and felt pain in its fingertips from the hot mug; when it returned a few minutes later, it was cool enough to pick up comfortably.

It drank and did not taste the tea.

In its memory, it heard the echo of Genji crying, “_you’re still a coward that runs away from his problems!_”

“You asked about names,” Zenyatta said when it put its mug down. “Do you not like the name you gave to Cat?”

For a moment it considered that question. “If a name like Cat was for individuality, it regrets naming her by something so common.”

“You don’t have to change it if you don’t want to,” Zenyatta said gently. “Cat is a fine name for her. You have defined her with it.”

It frowned. “A name defines something,” it said slowly. “And identifies.”

“It does,” Zenyatta agreed. “Like a human is a name that defines them, and Jesse McCree is a name that defines who he is.”

It knew that it was not coincidence that Zenyatta chose to speak of its handler.

“You call him ‘handler’—another name and definition,” Zenyatta continued. He hesitated. “Why do you call him ‘handler’? You know his name, do you not?”

“It does,” it agreed. “But a name…like that…is not for a Doll to use. It could identify its handler by name—if it could not, then it would be useless. But his name is a human name, not something that is appropriate for a Doll to use.”

Zenyatta hummed. “I see,” he said. “Did you know that omnics used to be required to call their human owners ‘master’?”

“It did not,” it said slowly. “But it understands why they may be programmed to do so.”

“Strangers were ‘master’ or ‘mistress’, or something similar,” Zenyatta added. “Those were the omnics that were programmed for speech, of course. Not all were—some preferred to have silent servants.”

It hesitated. “Dolls are not meant to speak with others,” it said slowly. “Only if its handler orders it.”

Zenyatta nodded. “I had thought that Talon might…appropriate some of that programming for Dolls,” he said. “It is meant to remind you that you are beneath them. To give power.” He sighed. “Intelligent beings are all susceptible to it,” he told Cyberninja gently. “Human and omnic. There is no ‘us’ and ‘them’, no distinction. Omnics and humans can both feel hate and love—it is not unique to one or the other.”

It considered that. If omnics “ascended”, then it would make sense. Omnics had begun to think for themselves, to build themselves, to develop feelings—and all feelings, or so it understood, were as cause-and-effect as if they were a programmer’s code.

“Dolls are another thing,” Zenyatta said. “Entirely unique. A human body—and, if I understand correctly, lingering human memories—but programming like an omnic. Brain scans show that your tissue is still largely organic yet you have the same programming behavior that I’ve seen in other omnics.”

That surprised it. “It…does not know how others react to programming,” it said slowly. “But it is not meant for such thoughts.”

Zenyatta seemed rueful. “No,” he agreed. “I suppose not. Those kinds of thoughts are for those with more experience in that field. I may be able to download thousands of medical journals and yet I will still lack that experience. My learning—any omnic’s learning—is not infallible.”

It said nothing, staring down at its empty mug. With no liquid, it could not see its reflection.

“Would you like more tea?” Zenyatta asked. “I’m sure the water in the kettle is still warm.”

There was that word again. “Like”. The implication of “want”; desire. It looked down at the tea strainer, at the creature trying to climb out of the water as if it had gotten stuck in the cup.

“More tea is not necessary,” it said, skirting the dangerous words.

“Very well,” Zenyatta said serenely. Then, “Does the tea strainer distress you?”

It considered the question. “It does,” it admitted at last. “It recognizes that it is an object, that it is incapable of life, but it…is distressed that it should try to escape.”

Zenyatta hummed. “Are you afraid of it leaving?” he asked.

“No,” it surprised itself by admitting. “It…is distressed that it should be hurt.”

“Ah,” Zenyatta said. “It is an object, incapable of life, and yet you assign identity to it.”

“It does not,” Cyberninja replied. “But it imitates life.”

It thought of the recall of Hanzo and the little girl playing with the furry creatures. Of the faceless person throwing away the young creature. They vaguely resembled each other. It remembered Hanzo being distressed, but wasn’t sure at the cause. Perhaps everything in that memory had been distressing to him.

“Would you be less upset if I found another strainer?” Zenyatta asked. “Did you like the tea?”

It hadn’t even tasted it; it was like drinking hot water.

“Would you like to try tea again?” Zenyatta asked after a pause. “I have tea bags, so we don’t need to use another strainer that might distress you. Genji gave them to me—he thought that they were cute.”

From the way he said that, Cyberninja wondered if they distressed Zenyatta as well. It agreed and Zenyatta stood, taking the mug from Cyberninja. He poured more water into it and pulled out a green packet.

“This is jasmine tea,” Zenyatta explained, placing a small sachet into the water. A simple cotton thread draped over the edge, attached to a slip of green paper. “It’s supposed to be mild to settle the stomach, but I lack that anatomy so I wouldn’t know.”

It wondered if Zenyatta drank tea. It would have assumed not, as tea seemed to be a human beverage, but from the way he spoke…

As if sensing its curiosity, Zenyatta bowed his head slightly. “There are foods and drinks that omnics may consume,” he said gently. “And a version of ‘tea’ that is able to be processed by my systems. The Shambali have their own special blend—both of human and omnic teas.”

It watched steam rise from the mug as Zenyatta placed it in front of it once more. The water darkened, turning brown and green. It billowed beneath the sachet of leaves, swirling in a current that must be present but that Cyberninja could not see.

“The longer the bag is in there,” Zenyatta explained. “The stronger the tea will be. It is a matter of taste, though tea enthusiasts insist that there is a proper way to do it. They regulate temperature and time and even the motion of the tea bag as it is placed in the water. Some say that tea bags are inferior to loose-leaf tea; some say that dried tea is inferior to fresh leaves.” He spread his hands as if to say ‘that’s that’.

“It seems,” Cyberninja said, watching the water so that it would not see Zenyatta’s reaction. “That you cannot please everyone.”

Zenyatta laughed. “I’m glad that you’re aware of that,” he said. “Because people will always complain and people will always be upset. You can only do the best you can.”

They fell into silence and Cybernina gently pulled out the tea bag using the string; it joined the tea strainer in the other cup.

“Names have power,” Zenyatta said suddenly as it contemplated the greenish tea left behind. “People—humans, usually—don’t seem to understand this. To humans, their names have always empowered them—or put them down.”

It considered that. “That makes sense,” it agreed at last.

“Names can be a catalyst,” Zenyatta said softly, reverently. There was a story behind those words, likely a result of his ascendance. “Names can be thrown away and cast away as easily as trash or it can be hoarded and treasured.” He peered at Cyberninja and there was something very intent in his gaze, as if trying to speak to it without words. “A name can be discarded and a new one chosen. With a name can come an identity.”

It knew that he was talking about it. About Hanzo and Cyberninja, of Jesse McCree and “handler”. But it said, “It must have been daunting.”

Zenyatta sighed—in remembrance, not regret—and leaned back slightly. “I used to work on the mountains,” he said, voice hazy as if speaking from a distance. In some ways he was, but it was more than a physical distance. “I was a new model that they were testing out. My presence would cause a lot of problems—it would mean that there were less dangers to the locals, but at the same time I and others like me would take away their extra income.

“My first few tests worked out fine. The local Sherpa were obviously worried—how else would they earn extra coin if they couldn’t accompany rich thrill-seekers to the summit? If they couldn’t carry burdens to base camp or work there as cooks? They found flaws—even if they weren’t biased, they would, they knew the mountains so well. Nevertheless, if it wasn’t for them, I would have been lost a hundred times over. Despite their fear of losing their income, despite their fear of me, they helped me. When I broke down they brought parts to fix me, they did their best to keep me functioning until a more trained engineer could be found. Despite their fear and my obvious lack of humanity they still showed me compassion. Sometimes I think that it was because they saw something in me that I couldn’t understand at the time—that we are all slaves to our own programming, our own will. I was just less aware of it. Like a child.”

He fell silent. Cyberninja touched the mug of tea, testing the temperature. It was uncomfortably warm but it curled both hands around it as it had seen its handler do.

“One day a young boy went missing,” Zenyatta remembered. “He wasn’t really a boy, but he was still so young. In a fit of rage he ran away. I didn’t realize, until I was going out in search of him where others could not, that he had run away _because_ of me. Because he was afraid—if I succeeded, then he, his family, would starve. He was in training to do what I was doing but could see what would happen if I were to prove as good, if not better than them.”

It considered that. Zenyatta had once said that he was relatively young—in his 20’s. It didn’t know how old anyone else was, not even Hanzo, though it guessed that Hanzo was certainly older than that. By its guess, its handler was about his age as well. Was Zenyatta the youngest currently in Overwatch?

Did he ascend during the Omnic Crisis? In a remote area outside of its fear? Certainly, it did not truly understand the Omnic Crisis, just that it happened—the name itself was certainly enough to give a brief example.

What had happened?

It had so many questions but it didn’t ask at all. It sat and listened.

“I found him,” Zenyatta breathed. “I carried him back to the village. He had fallen as the wind picked up. He was so angry that he had completely ignored the world around him and he had slipped. His leg was broken and swollen when I found him. There would be no climbing for him, no hiking, no training. He was crying because he felt hollow and hopeless and when I arrived he felt ashamed that a monster like me had saved him.” 

They fell into silence. Cyberninja sipped its tea. It didn’t like it but Zenyatta didn’t seem to notice, too distracted by his past.

He seemed to realize that he had left Cyberninja behind and turned to it. “My apologies,” he said faintly. “I did not mean to go too into detail about what happened. In short, I had begun…_ascending_ when I shouldn’t have. As far as anyone could figure, I hadn’t been built in an Omnium; as far as anyone could guess, I wasn’t manufactured by Omnica. And yet…

“I worked for the young man I saved. I hiked until I could get connection to something, anything, that could help and downloaded everything I could. When I returned, I nursed him back to health and helped around their house. The Sherpa were happy to have me around, despite their distrust. I could help fix things and without me on the slopes, they had more work. One day, the Shambali arrived, led by Mondatta.” He stopped suddenly. 

There was a long moment of silence.

Tekhartha Mondatta.

Cyberninja knew that name; Widowmaker liked to gloat over what she called her finest kill.

It did not say this.

Zenyatta sighed. “He was…my brother. My friend. My confidante. He recognized in me exactly what the Sherpa had seen. He coached me through it, soothed my fears. He helped to shape me into the omnic I am today.” He paused. “He gave me a name when I first joined the monastery—and from that name, I grew an identity. I _became_.”

To its surprise, Zenyatta seemed to be lost for words. He looked down at his hands, which were steepled in front of him on the top of the table. “The Sherpa had names for me, but they were not truly _names_. They were names based on my model number, my manufacturing line. Mondatta…gave me the ability to form an identity. He gave me a name independent of my past so that all I had to do was move forward—as if my past had happened to a different person. A different omnic.”

It considered that.

Zenyatta leaned forward. “A name, a name _of your own choosing_…”

“It is not Hanzo,” it said and Zenyatta cocked his head to the side. “It is a Doll; or it was. Perhaps it still is, even if it is a broken Doll. There is no…true distance between Cyberninja and Hanzo. Hanzo is dead, but something in him still lives in it. It did not exist before his death.”

“This is true,” Zenyatta agreed. “But the declaration of a name does not need to be a change. Sometimes names serve as a definition of self.” 

It looked at Zenyatta. “You want it to do something.” 

Zenyatta adjusted his fingers. It knew through Hanzo’s knowledge, that each movement of his hands was called a mudra. “You have given us your designation,” he said. “Is that the name you choose?” 

“It does not choose its name,” it said slowly. “But it is not Hanzo.” 

“I’m not saying you are,” Zenyatta assured it. “Tell me. Who are you?” 

Surprised, it tilted its head to the side. “It...does not understand.” 

“A name is a definition,” Zenyatta explained. “It is a declaration.” 

It understood what Zenyatta wanted. A declaration. It wanted to say such things but wasn’t sure if it should. 

“Who are you?” Zenyatta asked. 

It considered the question. “You are asking it to name itself.” 

Zenyatta inclined his head. “To put a definition to what you are. Isn’t that what you wanted to know? What you are?” It looked down at the mug cupped in its hands, at the cup next to it. “We don’t know what you are. You are a Doll, much like an omnic if it was installed in the body of a human. But you are not the Doll that is expected, are you?”

For a moment it considered that question. It was a Doll; it was…

“Is it not enough to be as it is?” Cyberninja wondered. 

“It is,” Zenyatta replied. “You can only be who you are.” 

It considered that once more. “It is Cyberninja,” it said slowly. “Designs go awry; machines can fail. That does not mean that the machine that failed is less than what it was designed to be.” 

“Are you what you were designed to be?” Zenyatta asked. 

“It is,” it said. “It was designed to be a Doll in Hanzo’s body. So it is Cyberninja.” 

Zenyatta hummed. “You can say ‘I am’,” he said. 

“It cannot,” it replied. 

“Why not?”

It did not have an answer for that. But it could feel something inherently wrong with saying “I am”. 

“Do you choose to be Cyberninja?” Zenyatta asked. “Or do you choose another name?” 

“It is Cyberninja,” it said and Zenyatta hummed in what sounded like agreement. “It is...it cannot be anything else.” 

Zenyatta spread his arms in a “that’s that” gesture. “And so it shall be,” he said. 

It looked at him. Nothing had happened. The world had not ended but there was no magical change. Everything was the same as it had always been. Zenyatta stood smoothly and opened a small drawer in the wooden chest, pulling out a small object. 

On one side it had a design in pink and red, the other was a mirror edged in more pink and red enamel to make it look like it was covered in ribbons. A golden handle ended in an enamel jewel, the whole thing looking gaudy; it knew that it did not like it, even knowing that it had a polished mirror. 

Very carefully Zenyatta held it out to Cyberninja, the polished surface facing down. 

It curled its fingers tighter around the mug in front of it. It did not want to touch it.

It did not want to look in the mirror and see Hanzo’s face. 

“Are you afraid?” Zenyatta asked gently. 

“It is not,” it said automatically. 

Zenyatta continued to hold out the mirror to Cyberninja. “You are Cyberninja,” he said. “So your hands are your own. Your arms are your own. Your face is your own. You said it before—Hanzo is dead. And you are Cyberninja.” 

Slowly, Zenyatta turned the mirror around and reluctantly, Cyberninja looked into the shiny surface. 

It saw Hanzo’s face, now that it knew where to look. It could see his eyes, the crooked slant of his nose. But the scars on Hanzo’s face did not match the video files that it had seen of him. Nor did the grooves on its face, nearly invisible to human eyes, or its eyes themselves. 

Hanzo had a beard but its face was smooth, its lips scarred. It knew that humans grew body hair but its face was smooth save for the tufts of dark hair over its eyes that was beginning to turn silver as human hair did when they began to grow old. 

It was to wear a mask, it remembered. According to its orders, the orders of previous handlers, it was supposed to cover its face. Here, it had not—mostly because it lacked the clothes to do so. 

In the mirror it could see itself and it didn’t like it. There was too much of Hanzo still there. Slowly its hand reached up to touch its face. Before, it had thought that the dermal plating on its face was just that—a plating to cover its true armor. That its dominant arm was just waiting for a new supply of dermal plating to arrive. 

Now it knew. The contrast of the pale grey plating of its fingers against the pale skin of Hanzo’s face was...upsetting. There was it...and there was Hanzo. It would forever share an identity with him. There would be _his_ and there would be...it. Hanzo and Cyberninja. 

“The beauty of a name,” Zenyatta said slowly. “Is that you have defined yourself.” 

Cyberninja pulled its optics away from the mirror and looked at Zenyatta. “It does not understand.” 

“A name is a definition,” Zenyatta told it. “You named yourself. Cyberninja. Thus you established your own identity. You are no longer parts of a person; you are no longer split between two identities. Whatever has happened in the past is _then_. There is nothing now but to move forward.” Slowly, Cyberninja looked down at its reflection again. “You don’t see parts of Hanzo and parts that are Cyberninja. Right now you have defined yourself as Cyberninja: a Doll from the body of Hanzo. It is not Hanzo you see, but yourself.” 

Slowly, Cyberninja reached out and took the mirror from Zenyatta’s hands, cupping between its own. It looked at its hands. They were still mismatched, one made of human flesh and the other of metal. 

The scars and calluses were from Hanzo’s life. The skin and bones and flesh had been his companions until he became a Doll; until the scientists scooped out whatever that had made him human. 

The scratches and dents on the armor of Cyberninja’s dominant hand were from its own life, were from experiences that Hanzo had not lived through, had not lived to see. 

Zenyatta cupped Cyberninja’s hands in his own. “Do you understand?”

“You mean to give it an identity.” 

“A sense of self,” Zenyatta agreed. “You are showing signs of it and I have no doubt that you would have come across this conclusion on your own.”

Self? 

It did not appreciate that idea, but it had to admit that the thought had merit. But…

It looked down at _its_ face, touched _its_ cheek with _its_ hand.

“Do you understand?” Zenyatta asked. 

A sense of self; a buffer between it, Cyberninja, and Hanzo. 

“Yes,” it said. “It understands.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Love it? Hate it? Let me know what you think! I always love hearing from you. 
> 
> You can also find me on Twitter at [Dracoduceus](https://twitter.com/dracoduceus).
> 
> ~DC


	16. Disaggregation: 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It considers the shadow that always hangs over it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh sweet Jesus I didn't realize how long of a break I took on this. I've been working on a few other projects and had put this on the side and....promptly forgot about it. So I'm so sorry for all of you that were waiting for so long for this. I hope you like it.

That night, Cyberninja could not power down. 

_You can say “I am”, _Zenyatta had said. It was surprising how much the thought distressed it._ You can say “I am”_. 

Though it was dark and around the time that it was expected to power down, it found that it could not do so. It got up, dressed in its working clothes, and walked into the hallway. Nobody was there guarding it and nobody stopped it in the halls; the thought that it was _allowed_ to freely wander the base was a disturbing one. 

It followed its usual path to the garden and was surprised—though also somewhat relieved—that it was stopped by the AI Athena. 

_“Where are you going, Cyberninja?”_ she asked from a speaker near the door. _“I cannot let you outside of the base without supervision._” 

Where else would it go?

“It’s fine,” someone said behind it. When it turned, it found the technician called Brigitte behind it, a large crate in her arms. “I’ll go out with it.”

It did not want her with it, but it could abide by her presence if it meant that it could go outside. 

Athena made an unhappy sound but nevertheless said, “_Very well._”

“We’ll probably be at the workshop,” Brigitte said as it moved to help her with the crate. She flashed it a thankful smile as she let it take it from her. 

_“Be careful, Brigitte_,” Athena warned. “_My sensors do not reach that far_.” 

“Not yet,” Brigitte said glibly. “But we’ll get your sensors up soon.” 

Athena made a sound that made Cyberninja think that she was disgusted. _“I do not need to see your father baby-talking the turrets,_” she informed Brigitte who laughed as she opened the door. 

“Pappa loves his babies,” she said and nodded at Cyberninja to lead the way outside. “Goodnight, Athena.”

“_Goodnight Brigitte, Cyberninja_,” Athena said as the door closed behind them. 

Brigitte smiled at Cyberninja. “Come on. You can help me carry my tools out to the workshop. Seeing you saved me a trip. Where were you off to so late at night?”

“It could not power down,” it said diffidently. 

The technician made a sound through her teeth. “That’s rough,” she said sympathetically. “What do you usually do when you can’t power down?” 

“It helps Hana with her MEKA,” it told her honestly. 

Brigitte knelt beside another crate that it didn’t see in the shadow of the building and grunted as she picked it up. It rattled with the sound of mechanical parts. Her arms, bared by the torn sleeves of her shirt, bulged. 

“I suppose it doesn’t help that Hana and her MEKA crew are currently in Busan,” Brigitte said. “I see why there’s a problem. Why were you heading into the garden?” 

It remembered that pets were contraband and decided not to say anything about visiting Cat. Thankfully, Brigitte didn’t seem too inclined to chase it for an answer. It followed her along the dark pathways, lit by small solar lights. The paths were familiar, but it had never once wondered what lay at the end of it. Now, it seemed that it would find out. 

A shape appeared on the path in front of them. Seeing Brigitte, Cat hissed and ran off into the bushes; a moment later, she poked her head out to look at Cyberninja. 

“I’d heard something about an opossum hanging around base,” Brigitte said neutrally. “Have you been feeding her?” 

Cyberninja didn’t answer, and again Brigitte didn’t seem too interested in prying answers from it. With another dimpled smile, she made her way, the crate in her arms rattling with each step, down the path. 

Following her, it found that the path led through an empty grassy area toward a building lit by outdoor flood lights. It could see in through sets of open doors into a cluttered workshop area. 

“Put that tote right there,” Brigitte said, kicking at the ground with a toe. “Please?” Cyberninja obeyed and lingered nearby, unsure what else to do. “How are your prostheses? 

It wasn’t expecting that question. “It is functional,” it said when she turned to look at it. 

“That doesn’t mean that it’s comfortable,” she pointed out. “I fixed your arm once. If you’re comfortable with me digging around in it, I’d be more than happy to.”

For a moment, it hesitated. It hadn’t ever spoken or interacted with Brigitte like this. Even when she was repairing it's arm after the damage done by The Reaper, she had been distracted, had done her repairs quickly without talking much to it. Clearly there had been other things on her mind; if Cyberninja had to guess, it would believe that she was thinking about the defenses of the new base and what repairs would need to be made.

“It is not meant to feel comfort,” it said slowly. 

Brigitte’s smile didn’t waver. “Perhaps it wasn’t in your initial designs,” she said. “But designs can change over time. Consider Artificial Intelligence: they are created to be self-learning, are they not? So perhaps they are programmed with a set amount of knowledge, but by analyzing patterns and the world around them, they learn. Why is it impossible for you to do the same? For your programming to change over time?” 

It didn’t have an answer for that, carefully considering the question. 

“There are many lessons to be learned in the world,” Brigtte said with a wisdom that it had not expected from her. She looked young, and not suited as a dispensary of wisdom. “And anyone who wishes to succeed must also fail, for sometimes the best lessons are found in failure.” 

She turned away from it and began pulling tools and supplies out of the crate she had been carrying. 

“Will...you say that it is not a Doll?” it asked. 

Brigitte turned to look at it once more. “That is not for me to say,” she told it. “If you say that you are a Doll or that you are human or that you are something else, I shouldn’t argue. If you want me to call you ‘he’ or ‘it’ or ‘she’ or ‘they’, it’s none of my business except to oblige as well as I can.” 

It didn’t understand her. “Did...you...know Hanzo?” 

“Not well,” she said, returning to the crate of supplies. She grunted as she lifted neat ties of cables, bound in neat clusters with strips of dirty cloth. Once more, her arms bulged, the smears of dirt and grease, the shine of her sweat in the lights of the workshop making her muscles stand out. 

As she moved aside with her load, it stepped up and lifted the rest from the crate, two more bundles of cables as thick around as two of its fingers. It followed her to a work station studded with rebars that had been repurposed into racks, from which she hung the cables. 

“Match the colors,” she told Cyberninja. “Top row is red, middle is yellow, the lowest is blue.” 

For a moment, it wasn’t sure what she was referring to. When it looked closer, it realized that the ties were colored, though it was difficult to tell beneath the grease that had been ground into the fibers. 

Its dominant arm groaned as it lifted the wires in place and Brigitte glanced at it. 

“I saw him when he couldn’t sleep,” Brigitte said. “He was good at finding places to be helpful. Not all of our projects here require a master’s in engineering; sometimes all we needed were screws tightened or objects held while we weld or solder.” 

Feeling strangely helpless—and in turn frustrated by it—Cyberninja watched her pull out the padding of the crate and carefully fold it to be put away. Without thinking it held out its arms to take the bundle and with a smile she handed it to it. 

“Over there,” she said, pointing at a row of shelves. “The big empty space there. Stack them neatly—or try to, I know it’s a bit of a mess over there.” 

Cautiously, Cyberninja picked its way over the cluttered ground to the area that Brigitte had indicated. There was an empty space that would fit the folded cloth but true to Brigitte’s word, there was clutter everywhere. Very carefully, afraid that it would be reprimanded otherwise, it moved aside some of the clutter and slid the bundle in place. 

“Thanks,” Brigitte said as she opened another crate and began pulling out stacks of cardboard boxes filled with things that clicked noisily together. Cautiously, it approached and picked up the boxes it found in the crate and followed Brigitte to the work bench. 

It wasn’t used to the way that she smiled at it, as if she appreciated it doing a simple task like carrying items. 

“It’s been crazy trying to set everything up here,” Brigitte told it as she showed it where to set the boxes. They were organized by size, so all it had to do was find the right drawer with the right sizes and tools. It was difficult because nothing was labeled; it suspected that with everything in a defined place, Brigitte didn’t need to spend time labeling things. “I’m sure you know, even if most of the time you’re out in the garden. Problem is, we’re being torn between setting up defenses and making sure that everything is livable. The other week the water went out and pappa and I were running all over base trying to figure out what was wrong.” 

This meant very little to it but it still listened intently, curious. She was a technician—why was she making repairs to water lines and sinks?

“People think ‘oh, you’re an engineer so you _must _know this, right?’” she threw her hands in the air but didn’t really seem too bothered by it. It was fascinated by her. Thus far she was the only one that didn’t seem to be on eggshells around it. There was no caution from her that even Ana and Zenyatta had. Theirs was a caution of its “healing”, though; everyone else, save Brigitte, were wary. 

They saw a ghost in Cyberninja’s face. 

Brigitte continued, oblivious to its thoughts. “Mind, I’ve done my own fair share of work around old houses,” she said, flapping a hand in the air. With her other, she sent the small box of something that rattled toward it. “That goes over there.” 

They were screws. It carefully picked one up and opened each drawer until it found one with sizes that matched. 

“They just think that just because I say that my dad and I are engineers that we know everything about how any mechanical system works. There’s a surprising amount of esoteric knowledge involved. You’d almost think that any engineer can figure out how anything works, but we can’t always. There’s a reason that there are trainings in specialized fields.”

It nodded as if it understood but it really didn’t. That seemed to placate Brigitte because she laughed. “A MEKA engineer knows more than I do about the inner workings of their MEKA,” she said. “But I know the basics of thrust and flight and engines. Dae can take apart and rebuild Hana’s blaster faster than I can figure out how to undo the first screw.”

It was certain that this was not true, but it said nothing, letting her talk. It was not its place to refute her opinion of her own skills, especially when it knew so little about her. 

“I can open an HVAC unit and see the parts but how the heck am I supposed to know how it works?” she shook her head in what it thought was mocking dismay. It was hard to tell, but she was still smiling. “Anyway, enough about me,” she said. “What about you? How are you doing?”

Surprised, it stopped sorting the screws. “It is functional,” it repeated. 

“I didn’t ask you whether you were functional or not,” Brigitte said patiently. Somehow it didn’t sound scolding. “I asked _how_ you are doing. Although I suppose you’re right—’I’m functional’ is still an answer.” It looked at her and found that she wasn’t even looking at it. She was sorting washers into neat piles, her back to it. “Sometimes all you can do is exist, you know?” 

It didn’t, but it said nothing. 

She seemed content to sit in relative silence, both of them sorting their assorted tools and supplies. It was surprised at how soothed it felt by the simple acts. All it had to do was match sizes, dig around in the drawers to match what it found in the little pile of boxes. Some of them were overfull and it needed to gently shake the drawer until the screws all fell into place. 

They sorted in silence for a while. When Cyberninja reached for its next box, its arm crunched. Turning around again, it found Brigitte frowning at it.

“I must insist,” she said quietly. “If you are comfortable with it, please let me look at your arm.”

It automatically held out its arm before realizing that she seemed to be waiting for something.

“Are you comfortable with it?” Brigitte repeated.

Cyberninja didn’t know how to respond. “You are…a technician,” it said slowly, unsure if it got her title correct. She didn’t immediately correct it though, so it continued, “It is to obey technicians.”

For a long moment, Brigitte regarded it. She gestured for it to come over, tugging a seat out from where it was tucked beneath a workstation. “Sit please,” she said and fastened a lamp on an extending arm to the work bench beside her with a clamp.

Did it say something wrong? It itched to ask but that would be overextending its boundaries.

“Zenyatta and Bastion let me make repairs to them,” Brigitte said, laying out a series of tools and an unlabeled bottle of something. “I also do routine physical maintenance on them when they are unable to do so themselves—so don’t worry about me not being able to fix you.”

“It is not broken,” it said automatically.

She nodded. “Wrong choice of words,” she said apologetically and patted the work table. “Arm here, please.” It obeyed but to its surprise, she didn’t immediately begin working on it. She gathered another tool, a rag, and looked at it once more. “You are obedient,” she said. “You are programmed to obey technicians. Now I am asking _you_, Cyberninja, not your programming: are you comfortable with me working on your arm?”

It hesitated. Now was not the time to discuss its worry that she would find fault in it. It was surprised with its desire to live—previously it had thought that such desires were only for humans, for living creatures.

Perhaps it truly _was_ living.

“You are a…technician,” it said slowly. “It is confident in your skills.”

Brigitte looked at it thoughtfully. “What did the technicians do? At Talon.”

“Talon technicians did not repair it,” Cyberninja corrected automatically. “Only Dollhouse technicians.”

She nodded. “Dollhouse,” she echoed. “Because you’re created in the likeness of another; toys meant to be played with and discarded.”

It looked at her curiously. For the first time she seemed upset and it didn’t know what it had done wrong.

Somehow sensing its discomfort, her expression softened slightly. “Widowmaker—she’s a Doll, correct?” it nodded, even though she didn’t seem to expect an answer. “She tried to kill my parents. Pappa knew Amélie—the person that Widowmaker was modeled after.” 

It nodded again in understanding. Dolls were meant to cause pain of all kinds—especially in those that recognized who they once were.

“Tell me what a Dollhouse technician did,” Brigitte said, dusting her hands as if wiping away the conversation and the dark topic. “What did they do that makes you so hesitant to allow me to work on you?”

It hesitated. To admit the reason would be to admit the memories it had of Hanzo’s life; to admit that it was hoarding such things, like a collection of smooth stones, might give people false hope that it might “heal” and turn into Hanzo.

“Doctor-patient confidentiality,” Brigitte said gently when its hesitation led to a long silence.

Again with that phrase. “That is for humans,” it said.

“And doctors with patients,” Brigitte agreed. “And I am not a doctor—not a _medical_ doctor, anyway—and you are not my patient. But the offer still stands, though it is against my word, not a law. Anything we discuss here will not be mentioned anywhere else.”

It looked down at its hand. The plating was scuffed, the internal workings dirtier than it would like. “Dollhouse technicians did physical work on it,” it said slowly. “They did maintenance and repair on its limbs and they were there for processing after it debriefed after a mission.”

Brigitte regarded it. “The ‘processing’ bit upset you,” she observed. “What was involved in it?”

Once more it hesitated. “To prevent backups and delays,” it said slowly. “After debriefing with its handler, where all necessary information would be taken, its memories would be wiped by the technicians.”

A peculiar expression crossed Brigitte’s face. “Does it…did it…hurt?”

It hesitated, but she seemed so upset that it decided that honesty would be best. “It is not meant to feel pain,” it said slowly. “But it felt pain for that procedure.”

Brigitte nodded slowly, her face grim. “I see. So that is why you are afraid.” She sighed. “I wish that I had known this sooner to save you the anxiety. For what its worth, I will tell you that I do not handle memories—human or memory drives in omnics. I recognize my boundaries and that is beyond me. I will only repair or maintenance—if you agree to it—whatever you request and nothing more. If I see anything that I believe needs to be fixed, I will address them with you and wait for permission to proceed. How does that sound?”

For a moment it didn’t understand. Was she making a deal with it?

She held out her hand with a wide smile. It was as if she had been untouched by her earlier discomfort. “Shall we shake on it?”

Shake on it?

Such agreements were for humans and yet…

_The man’s hand was damp with sweat, his grip too loose as if Hanzo held the hand of a dead man. Weak._

_The next man had a firm grip but Hanzo could feel gun and weapon calluses. He held the handshake for a few seconds too long, his grip tightening as if to test Hanzo. He would lose; his pride would see to it._

_“It’s a deal!” the last man said. He used both hands to shake Hanzo’s hand._

Cyberninja found itself reaching for her hand as if in echo of the Recall. Her grip was firm and it could feel the calluses on her palm against its own. When they released, it looked down at its hand. Nothing had changed except that it tingled almost pleasantly.

“Now,” Brigitte said, back to business. “Why don’t you tell me what is the problem with your arm? Or does it just need a cleaning?”

“It needs cleaning,” it said automatically. “There may be some wires that have corroded and require replacing. It has been experiencing minor delays in movement.”

Brigitte nodded and gently lifted its arm, inspecting it critically. “There are a lot of seams for dirt to get in,” she said. “Do you have gloves? For when you’re in the garden?”

“It was assigned a pair,” it agreed. “But dirt still gets in.”

She nodded. “Were you in the practice of cleaning out your own arm?” she asked. “With Talon?”

“It had a small kit,” it told her. “But it was confiscated by Overwatch.”

“Alright,” she said. “First I’m going to remove some plating. I suppose I’ll have to start on your upper arm and work my way down—will you take off your shirt?”

It obeyed, pulling off the stained shirt it had been wearing. When cloth wasn’t obscuring its vision, it found Brigitte frowning at it. “Were you assigned clothes?” she asked. “Or is that your only set?”

Strangely enough, it felt self-conscious. “This is its work shirt,” it said.

“Just one?” It nodded. “We’ll have to fix that,” she said. “But that’s not the problem at hand. May I touch you?”

For a moment it was confused. Why would she ask such a thing? Then it realized that she wanted to touch its chest, where dermal plating gave way to the mechanisms of its arm. It nodded and she scooted forward.

“It looks like the skin is inflamed,” she observed. “Have you spoken to Bap about it? If you haven’t, perhaps you should mention it—I’d hate for you to get an infection. When was this installed?”

For a long moment it thought. “It does not know,” it said at last. It did not say that time did not exist to a Doll, so it would not have made note of it. From the way she frowned, Brigitte must have realized something similar.

“It appears that it’s rooted firmly,” she said. “And obviously the connections work. I see some grossness building up over here which we can clean—and you’re right, I already see a wire that we might need to replace. One sec.”

She kicked back and rolled on her stool back to one of the desks. Digging around beneath piles of boxes, she pulled out a dirty notebook with a triumphant cry. She pulled herself back as if walking, flipping through the pages of the book in her hands.

“I’m going to record what I find,” she explained. “I don’t know if we have everything here to repair you. The simple stuff we should have, but this wire looks very small—I might have to order that special.”

She tugged out a box of rags from beneath the table and what it recognized as a cleaning solution. As it watched, she began to clean its armor and inner workings quickly and efficiently with the occasional comment.

“Interesting wiring, here. Can I take a picture?”

“Ah, another wire that’s fraying. We’ll have to replace it.”

“Oh! You have a bug in here. They call these pill bugs, you know.”

Despite its wariness, it found itself relaxing. Her cleaning didn’t hurt and her chatter was pleasant to listen to—it was directed to it, but didn’t require its response so it allowed itself to drift.

Brigitte was working on its wrist when she said, “Do you have trouble? With people thinking that you’re Hanzo?”

It considered the question and how much it should tell her. “Yes,” it said at last. “People think that it will ‘heal’ and it will be Hanzo again.”

“You don’t think so?” Brigitte asked, sounding sincerely curious.

It hesitated. “Hanzo is dead,” it said at last. Memories did not mean that Hanzo was alive. “He is not coming back.”

Brigitte hummed. “People still hold on to hope though, don’t they?” She sighed. “Have you noticed that people tend to see what they expect to see rather than what is really there?” she asked. “Or they tend to see the past, as if you are forever in someone else’s shadow.”

For a long moment they were both quiet. From the way Brigitte’s tongue poked out from between her lips, she was concentrating on something. “Yes, this will need to be replaced,” she murmured quietly and turned to write down the note.

“Have you heard of the Legacy Children?” Brigitte asked abruptly as she turned back. “They’re the relatives of the old Overwatch—the really famous ones. Usually they’re kids—hence the ‘Legacy Children’. I and my siblings are Legacies; so is Fareeha, but I don’t think you’ve met her yet, have you? Everyone bends over backwards for us so that it isn’t enough to be judged by our merit, but by the merit of those that came before us. In my case it’s my father, the famous engineer.”

There was a hint of disgust in her voice. It said nothing, watching her.

“No matter what I do, all I hear is ‘oh, you’re Torbjörn’s daughter!’ and all of my troubles are waved away. Universities bent over backwards to invite me when I was old enough; companies lined up to offer me and my siblings jobs for being nothing more than Torbjörn’s progeny.” She held its hand, curling its fingers around her own. She wasn’t looking at it, as if speaking to its hand. But her eyes flicked to its own and it felt pinned beneath her gaze. “You can never shake that shadow, can you? It will always be there. For me it was my father; for Fareeha, Ana.”

“Hanzo,” it said and she nodded.

It was a very bleak way of looking at things, but she certainly wasn’t incorrect. It said none of these thoughts as she picked up a canister of compressed air and gently blew out clumps of dirt.

“Normally I wouldn’t have you sitting here,” she said as she tossed another dirty rag aside. “Whenever someone has a prosthesis, I usually have them disconnect if possible—I hate to bore anyone.”

This was nice, it wanted to say. Strangely relaxing.

“Would it be a Legacy…?” it trailed off. It did not seem right to call itself a “child”, even in the context of the Legacies that Brigitte had talked about.

Brigitte smiled. “Of sorts,” she said. “It’s more of a metaphor in your case. Just as I can’t escape my father’s shadow and neither can Fareeha escape Ana’s…you cannot escape your ‘past life’. Hanzo will always be there, dead or alive. Everyone will compare you to him.” She paused to replace the plates over the back of its hand.

It looked out the open doorway. The world was still dark; they were still trapped in the hazy in-between of time that didn’t exist—at least, not for humans. Somewhere outside, creatures stirred and went about their nighttime activities. Cat walked around doing whatever it was that she did when she wasn’t climbing on its back.

“So is it just something that must be accepted?” It asked. “Will the shadow of those before always linger?”

Brigitte hummed. “They’ll always be there,” she said. “But I guess the best thing we can do is strive to overcome them. Their legacy won’t go away and it will forever be tied to us—an inescapable truth. All we really can do is strive to live our best life as we want to be—not as everyone thinks we will be.”

That wasn’t a great answer, but Cyberninja supposed that there was no other alternative.

“I suppose we just have to learn to live with ourselves,” she said almost wistfully, getting a small brush to gently clean between the plates of its fingers. “It’s not a great answer, especially when we’re standing in the shade of people from the past that we’re only tenuously connected to. But all we can do is our best.”

Cyberninja considered that seriously as Brigitte continued to clean its fingers. Later, it bid her goodnight as she walked it back to the main base and thought about shadows that still existed in the dark.

“Can’t sleep?” Ana asked as it walked into the base. Zenyatta was with her. Both looked relieved, as if afraid that it would have run away.

“It was restless,” it said.

Ana hummed. “Come,” she said. “Let’s go into the kitchen. Cooking usually tires me out.”

“I am glad to see you well, Cyberninja,” Zenyatta said cryptically. “I will take my leave of you, then—unless you need me?” When Ana shook her head, he waved and walked off into the base, disappearing down the hall.

“He was worried,” Ana told it quietly as it followed her down another hall. “He said something about having a difficult discussion with you earlier today and was worried that it had driven you away.”

It thought about the conversation with Zenyatta. About “self” and “I”.

It thought about shadows of heroes; about how Brigitte said that Ana had a daughter.

“Brigitte said that you have a daughter,” it said and didn’t know why.

“Had,” Ana corrected as if she wasn’t bothered by the loss. “She doesn’t consider me her mother. I admit that in the past I hadn’t been the best mother figure to her.”

It wondered if this was how her daughter tried to escape the ever-present shadow of the past. It did not mention this or the conversation that it had with Brigitte about Legacy Children and learning to live in the shadow of others. From the way her shoulders slumped ever so slightly, it thought that she knew that well. Perhaps it wasn’t the same kind of shadow that haunted the Legacies that Brigitte had mentioned, but it was a burden nonetheless.

There were other ghosts, it knew: it could see the reflection of one in its handler’s eyes.

“I used to have these long, cyclical conversations,” Ana admitted. She turned into another room and flicked on the lights, revealing a small kitchen. “There was no point in trying to justify my actions because there was nothing to justify. Perhaps I had done the right thing for the world, or perhaps not—what mattered was that I hadn’t been there for Fareeha. Anything I said otherwise was just an excuse.”

There was a story there, but it didn’t ask.

“I was raised to believe that everything you do has a consequence,” Ana continued. “And life was about balancing the good and the bad. What nobody talks about is how the same action, viewed from a different perspective, can have both good and bad consequences. Spending so much time saving the world, saving strangers across the globe, could mean that I had no family of my own. I did the right thing in saving lives, but what did it do to my own?”

It watched her move around the kitchen, unable to understand exactly what she was doing. Zarya had tried to teach it “cooking” but it wasn’t very good at it. 

“I thought I taught her to be strong,” Ana continued. “But I only broke her down. I thought that I taught her duty but I only gave her loneliness. It certainly doesn’t help that I was assumed dead at some point,” Ana added. From the way she spoke, it thought that she also considered this hazy not-day-not-night to be perfect for secrets and thoughts that would not otherwise be spoken out loud. “At first it wasn’t my fault.” Here she paused to touch her covered eye. It thought that it was an unconscious action, that thoughts of her past—her own form of the recalls it experienced—brought her hand to touch the old injury.

For a long moment, silence reigned in the kitchen. She walked to the food box and brought out a small container of brown objects that she set in front of Cyberninja. It was followed by a shallow bowl and a deeper bowl filled with water.

Without speaking, she showed it how to peel apart the hard, brown shell to reveal the softer, brown and white dappled flesh inside. The water was to rinse the object of its shell; the empty bowl was for the peeled product.

“I got in a sniper battle with Widowmaker,” Ana said as she turned back to the stove. “I hesitated; she didn’t.”

It thought that she was fortunate to be alive but didn’t say this.

“They assumed that I was dead—they couldn’t even find my body,” she said musingly. “But I had been taken to the hospital. There I had no memory of who I was, who I had been. I couldn’t even remember Fareeha, not for a long time.” She sighed. “I realized that I was_ tired_. Tired of fighting, of being something that the posters and the public dictated. I wanted that quiet that everyone said that people get after they retire.”

There was more to the story, Cyberninja knew. How did she recover her memories? Why did she come back?

How did people react? Did they think of her as the old Ana? Had she changed?

It focused on peeling shells and didn’t ask any of these questions. The stove hissed, the flame roaring, and Ana seemed content to let these sounds fill the kitchen.

“Do you ever get these moments that…suddenly you’re somewhere else—someone else entirely? You’re doing something and then…” she trailed off.

It thought of its Recalls, hoarded like precious stones. It thought about all of the times that it had been doing something and moments of Hanzo’s life would return to it.

“It’s handler asked Hanzo to marry him,” it said. “It remembers that. It thought that it was a dream but it must have been one of Hanzo’s memories.”

Ana didn’t turn to look at it. “I thought that my own memories—my own trauma—was bad enough, but it must be suffering to you to have another person’s memories.”

“Do you experience it too?” it found itself asking. “The Recalls?”

She gave it a peculiar look. “Is that what you call it? Recalls?” she smiled. “There are a lot of names for them—psychology has it's own names, has it's own explanation. When an action, even a smell brings back a memory. Sometimes it’s small, but sometimes it takes over as if someone else is driving the hovercar.”

They fell silent again. It wanted so badly to ask but it knew better than to do so.

It knew better than to share too much of its own Recalls, even though it really wanted to know who were in them, what the context was in some of the more mysterious ones. Ana might not know, and she might think it defective for asking so many questions.

At the counter, she pulled out a knife and began cutting something. The sound of the knife on the wooden board she had used to protect the counter made a Recall touch the edge of its mind. It was like a tangible touch, like something knocking to get in.

For a moment it fought it before deciding to let it in.

_The kitchen was busy. Men in stained white coats ran back and forth._

_“Too slow!” someone barked at Hanzo._

_For the first time, the Recall changed halfway through. Now it and Hanzo stood in a large room floored with some kind of bound, springy straw. Hanzo’s hands—both hands, because it had not yet lost its dominant one—were covered in bruises. They ached, trembled minutely beneath the weight of the wooden sword in it' hands._

Shinai_, Hanzo’s memory whispered. They’re called _shinai_._

_“You need to be faster,” a voice said. The entity in front of it was faceless, towering over it—Hanzo must have been young, as evidenced by his small hands. “You need to be better. Never second best.”_

_It learned why Hanzo’s hands and arms were bruised when the entity brought down a bamboo rod over the back of them._

Water splashed and it jerked out of the Recall. It had dropped whatever was in its hands into the water and the discarded shells. Ana turned and looked at it.

She came over with a small towel which she handed to it so that it could dry its hands. A moment later, she brought back bowls of noodles in broth, topped with vegetables. Taking one of the cleaned things, she cut it in half.

“I’m not always a fan of tea eggs in my ramen,” Ana said. “But they’re pretty at least.” She sliced them, revealing a pale white inside with a golden center like the setting sun. the halves were arranged in the bowls among the nests of vegetables. “It’s not a _great_ meal, but I figured that something warm would be nice and I didn’t eat much at dinner. This should be mild enough for you and we really should be getting you to a more solid diet.”

It looked down at the bowl. Something like this had been given to it before, it remembered. Zenyatta had been upset. Would Zenyatta be upset now?

“If you don’t like it, I can make you something else,” Ana said as she settled across the table from it. She pulled aside the bowls and the container of tea eggs so that they could see each other as they ate. “Or if you’re not hungry, you don’t have to eat.”

There was an undefinable quality to the steam that made it want it. It reached without thinking for a pair of thin sticks and lifted the pale strands into the air among a silvery fog of steam.

They ate. Cyberninja didn’t know how it knew to do so but it did. It was just happy that Ana didn’t assume that Hanzo was returning.

It thought of Legacies and shadows that you couldn’t escape.

It thought of memories that appeared when it wasn’t expecting it—and how Ana experienced something similar.

It thought of “I” and “self” and a definition of identity.

It thought of someone doing the right thing for the greater good but somehow still doing wrong.

“I have a picture,” Ana said suddenly as it was reaching the bottom of the bowl. She reached into a pocket it didn’t know she had and pulled out a thin sheet. Ana tapped it twice and an image formed on the translucent sheet.

There was a woman in it that it only recognized as Ana by the tattoo beneath her eye. She was younger—this was clearly some time ago—and she wore a military uniform. From the symbol on her chest, it was from the early days of Overwatch. One hand held a sniper rifle; the other was wrapped around a little girl.

It had no reference to estimate her age, but from the way she held herself, from her height, it supposed that she wasn’t very “little”. She had a serious expression despite the hesitant smile on her face and her eyes showed knowledge that it had always been told that children shouldn’t have to understand.

“After a while she stopped calling me ‘mother’,” Ana said wistfully. “I didn’t see her enough—she spent more time wandering the base than she did with me. And she lived mostly with her father. I was too busy saving the world to see her.”

“But you were saving the world,” it said before it could stop itself. “For her.”

Ana sighed and pulled the picture back. She fiddled with it. “To a child, their parents _are_ their world,” she said sadly. “And I was never there for her. Everyone else raised my child—we were only connected by blood.”

By blood, it thought but didn’t say. And Overwatch.

“And blood doesn’t tie people together the way that everyone thinks,” Ana said. The picture in her hand faded and another formed in its place. She set it down in front of Cyberninja. “Enough of that.”

It looked down at the picture of a young man still growing into his long limbs. He wore a small scrap of fabric around his throat, a brown hat, and a torn and dirty vest. His jeans were tattered but the weapon in his hand was as familiar as Cyberninja’s own arm.

“I think,” Ana said. “It’s time to show you pictures of Jesse.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Love it? Hate it? Feel free to come and yell at me on Twitter at [Dracoduceus](https://twitter.com/dracoduceus). I always love hearing your thoughts. 
> 
> I hope that the next chapter won't take as long, but I am working on a few project--so be on the lookout for announcements soon ;) 
> 
> ~DC

**Author's Note:**

> Love it? Hate it? Yell at me about it. 
> 
> You can also find me on Twitter at [Dracoduceus](https://twitter.com/dracoduceus). There you'll find more information on when I will post updates to this, as well as information on the other projects I'm working on! 
> 
> As always, thanks for making it down here. I hope you enjoyed it. I'm very excited for this story. Updates will be slow through October as I have a trip I will be taking in the later half of the month. I will also be working on kinktober prompts, so there will also be a delay as I work on those. 
> 
> ~DC


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